BWTTRAND 
AOftffS  C-- 
14*  PA*1 
LON9  P" 


S  O  U  C  I 


A  NOVEL. 


BY 

MRS.  J.  H.  TWELLS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS." 


"Si  Ton  pouvait  soumettre  le  gi'nie  des  artistes  a  unc  analyse  chi- 
mique,  on  trouverait  un  quart  de  folie  et  de  naivete  sur  trois  quarts 
d'amour.  Seulement,  cet  amour  apres  avoir  erre  dans  les  e"tendues, 
fouilli'  les  espaces,  sollicite  1'infini,  se  formule  presque  toujours  dans  un 
seal  objet  qui  semble  a  I'amant  re"aliser  toutes  les  exigences  de  son  rfive." 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

LONDON: 

16  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET,  COVENT  GARDEN. 
1878. 


Copyright,  1877,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 
NOBODY'S  CHILD. 

CHAPTER  PAOE 

I. — A  Manufactory  of  Pifferari  in  the  Rue  des  Acacias    .        .  7 

II. — Tonio  makes  a  Resolution 11 

III. — A  Perilous  Escape 15 

IV. — Madame  Margot — A  Good  Samaritan          ....  21 

V. — "Sumtimes  Kisses — and  suintiines  Kix"     ....  26 

VI. — Fortune  versus  Supper 31 

VIL— A  Night  in  the  Market-Place 40 

VIII. — "  He's  vuss  nor  Vicked — He  looks  Green  !"         ...  46 
IX. — Buried  in  a  Snow-Drift        .......54 

X.—"  She  is  from  Paris,  Wife" 58 

BOOK  II. 

TONIO. 

I. — Th^ophile's  Prophecy 83 

II. — "  I  do  not  Love  you  any  more"  ......  68 

III. — As  Comfortable  a  Companion  as  a  Keg  of  Gunpowder      .  75 
IV. — "  Say  Good-by,  Souci,  and — kiss  me !"        .        .        .         .81 

V. — "  Oh,  who  would  be  a  Woman  ?" 85 

VI. — "  Lasciate  ogni  Speranza" 90 

BOOK  III. 

VIOLA. 

I. — A  Holiday  in  Vogogna        .......  97 

II. — "  Die  Vergissmeinnicht"      .......  100 

III. — Shrimps  and  Oysters 106 

IV.— The  Lily  of  the  Valley Ill 

V.— Home  Again 113 

VI. — "This  is  mein  Liebchen,  Antonio !" 117 

VII.— What  is  Love  ? 121 

VIII.—"  Love's  Sweet  Bait  from  Fearful  Hooks"  .        .        .         .124 

IX.— Mephisto's  Misstep 129 

X. — "  Viola,  I  have  been  Thinking" 135 

XI.— The  Violet-Broidered  Kerchief 140 

XII. — "A  Yellow  Primrose  was  to  Him" 144 

XIII. —  "  Love's  Words  are  Writ  on  Rose-Leaves,  but  with  Tears"  .  154 

XIV.—"  Oh,  what  a  Drear,  Dark  Close  to  my  Poor  Day  !"    .         .  160 

XV. — "  Le  seul  vrai  Langage  au  Monde  est  un  Baiser"       .        .  164 

XVI. — Renunciation 168 

XVII.— "What   IGone  without  a  Word  ?" 171 

6 


2)46336 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PACK 

X VIII.— Besting  under  the  Shadow  of  the  Gourd          .        .        .174 
XIX. — "  Fadeth  Sweete  Flower,  and  Beauty  Pales  away  !"          .     177 

XX. — An  Unwelcome  Suitor       ..,....] 

XXI.—"  There  is  no  Blood  upon  these  Hands  of  Mine"     .        .     192 

XXIL— On  the  Wing 196 

BOOK  IV. 

LAURELS. 

I. — "  Are  we  so  soon  forcot  f"        .        .        .        .        .        •     201 

II.—"  Hath  She  her  Faults  ?" 209 

III. — "  Sweet  were  the  Days  when  I  was  all  unknown"    .        .     214 

IV.— «  Lie  still,  Young  Adder  !" 218 

V.— "  Our  Whole  Life  is  a  Glucupicron"          .        •        .         .222 

BOOK  V. 

VIOLA. 

L— In  the  Rue  du  Bac    .;.,....    234 

II.— A  Joyful  Surprise      .         . 241 

III. — "Nina!  Nina!  We  shall  never  see  his  face  again  !"        .    243 

BOOK  VI. 

SOUCI. 

!._«  who  is  That  ?" 248 

II. — "  He  is  very  Proud  and  Shy,  Jeanne"       ....  255 

IIL— Baffled       .  257 

IV.— Baffled  Again    '.        1 263 

BOOK  VII. 

HEINRICH.  ^ 

'I. — *'  A  mon  ame  il  faut  mon  Dieu !"      ,        .        .  270 

II.— "All  is  Lost  except  a  Little  Life!" 274 

III.—"  It  may  be  a  Link  !" 282 

IV.— The  Signet-Ring 288 

V.— "Am  I  too  Late?"     ......         I         .  291 

VI. — !<  An  Immortal  Soul  is  Passing  now !"       ,        •        .        .  294 

BOOK   VIII. 

CYPRESS. 

I.— "LeVideetleNeant" .304 

.II.— The  Tiger-Cub  has  attained  its  Full  Growth    .        .        .307 
I  [I.—"  She'll  be  a  Soldier  too— She'll  to  the  Wars !"         .         .     317 

IV.— Two  Letters 326 

.  V.— The  jSole  Work  of  a  Lifetime .330 


S  O  U  C  I. 

BOOK  I. 

NOBODY'S  CHILD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*• 

A  MANUFACTORY  OP  PIFFERARI  IN  THE  RUE  DBS  ACACIAS. 

"  A  child  forsaken  waking  suddenly, 

Whose  gaze  afeard  on  all  things  round  doth  rove, 
And  seeth  only  that  it  cannot  see 
The  meeting  eyes  of  love." 

THAT  ingenious  spur  to  exertion — Mere  Ursule's  crutch — 
has  been  seldom  needed  to  stimulate  Souci's  energies;  she 
is  popular  as  Beranger  himself  with  the  loungers  about  the 
cafes, — the  griaettes  and  idle  miUtaires,  the  bonnes  and  their 
charges,  who  compose  her  chief  audience. 

People  rarely  pass  her  without  a  second  glance,  although — 
to  the  eye  of  flesh — 4he  sallow,  unchildllke  face,  with  its  strange, 
woful  eyes  and  stern-set  lips,  offers  scant  satisfaction. 

Perhaps  to  the  psychic  vision,  whose  optic  nerve  separates 
man — more  or  less  widely — from  the^brute  creation,  there  ap- 
pear embryonic  possibilities  in  this  atom  of  humanity,  beside 
which,  curve  and  coloring  seem  weak  and  pitiful  things.  To 
such  vision,  it  is  a  terrible  little  face, — sharpened  by  precocious 
shrewdness,  by  craft  born  of  treachery,  and  distrustful  cyni- 
cism, the  outgrowth  of  experience ; — a  face  that  has  never 
known  real  laughter,  and  but  seldom  the  luxury  of  tears.  A 
tangled  thatch  of  dusky  hair;  eyes  in  whose  depths  lurk.s  that 
daring  devil,  hopeless  misery ;  white  teeth  gleaming  from  out 


8  SOUCI. 

the  sunburnt  pallor  of  her  face ;  lank,  brown  limbs  of  a  certain 
fantastic  grace;  an  adroit  sleight  of  hand;  and  a  piping,  bird- 
like  voice  of  singular  sweetness  and  purity, — this  is  Souci. 
She  is  well  known  in  the  Paris  streets,  in  the  hotel  court- 
yards, about  the  boulevards — wherever  her  harvest  of  small 
coin  may  be  reaped — the  jingle  of  her  tambourine  can  be  heard 
accompanying  the  clear  treble  of  her  voice. 

Mere  Ursule  finds  her  very  nearly  as  remunerative  as  her 
pet  cripple,  Tou-Tou.  But  Tou-Tou  is  unique:  it  is  not 
vouchsafed  to  many  babes  to  be  crushed  so  effectually  in  their 
infancy  that  all  likeness  to  the  human  form  is  obliterated  for- 
ever. Patched  together  by  the  inexpert  hand  of  a  hospital 
tyro,  he  had  been  permitted  to  crawl  through  life  after  such 
fashion  as  would  elicit  the  compassion  of  a  well-to-do  worm, 
looking  cheerfully  upon  his  deformity  as  the  nucleus  of  a 
comfortable  fortune.  In  a  sunshiny  corner  of  the  Champs 
Elysees  he  was  deposited  daily, — his  wizened  face  always 
smiling,  his  ragged  cap  never  empty.  There  are  few  eyes 
insensible  to  beauty,  but  there  are  fewer  still  for  whom  the 
horrible  has  not  a  ghastly  fascination.  A  well-managed  stump 
is  often  more  lucrative  than  a  broken  heart  in  a  starved  frame, 

boasting  all  its  members. 

******* 

Perhaps  Souci  is  envying  Tou-Tou  his  misshapen  little 
frame  to-night,  as  she  cowers,  a  bruised  and  aching  bundle 
of  misery,  close  to  the  damp  wall  of  the  attic  where  she  had 
been  thrust,  half  dead  with  pain  and  fear,  by  Mere  Ursule, 
after  the  cruellest  beating  she  had  ever  experienced.  Tou-Tou 
was  never  beaten  :  his  spark  of  life  was  such  a  faint  and  feeble 
glimmer  that  even  Mere  Ursule  held  her  hand,  fearful  of  ex- 
tinguishing it  entirely.  It  was  clearly  against  her  interest  to 
allow  the  vials  of  her  wrath  to  overflow  upon  that  defenceless 
head ;  but  with  Souci  it  was  different.  She  had  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  kicks  and  curses  ever  since  she  could  remember 
anything,  and  she  had  learned  to  endure  in  a  passive,  dogged 
silence,  unrelieved  by  cry  or  tear,  which  was  eminently  satis- 
factory, if  aggravating. 

But  on  this  occasion  the  old  woman's  crutch  seemed  to  have 
gone  deeper  than  the  bruised  and  quivering  flesh, — seemed  to 
have  struck  down  into  the  soul,  piercing  it,  at  last,  with  the 
iron  of  a  frantic,  desperate  resistance. 


KOBODF'S  CHILD.  9 

For  the  first  t'mo  in  her  sad  little  persecuted  life,  the  mad 
instinct,  of  revoh  had  arisen  within  her, — the  wild-cat  in  her 
nature  had  sprung  into  frenzied  being,  and  the  child  had 
turned  upon  her  tormentor,  with  tooth  and  nail,  in  the  impo- 
tent fury  of  a  maddened  animal, — an  animal  caught  in  a  trap 
from  whence  escape  is  impossible. 

Thus  far  Souci  can  remember,  with  a  strange  mingling  of 
wild  joy  and  abject  fear: — joy  which  sends  a  thrill  to  her 
finger-ends,  as  she  recalls  the  sight  of  Mere  Ursule's  torn 
and  bleeding  visage; — terror  at  the  prospective  vengeance  in 
which  the  hag  will  assuredly  find  ample  consolation. 

With  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  hands  pressed  tightly 
over  her  ears,  to  shut  out  the  shrieking  of  the  wind  as  it 
rushes  with  demoniac  fury  through  the  narrow  street,  and 
moans  and  sobs  ceaselessly  down  the  chimney,  drowning  the 
frightened  twitter  of  the  sparrows  by  its  violence,  Souci  lives 
over  and  over  the  cruel  hours  of  the  past  day. 

Once  more  she  sees  the  vindictive  glare  of  the  old  crone's 
wicked  eyes, — feels  the  clutch  of  the  claw-like  fingers, — the 
heavy  blows, — the  hot  breath  hissing  maledictions  into  her 
ear.  Again  she  hears  the  triumphant  cackle  with  which — her 
fury  spent — Mere  Ursule  had  thrust  her,  half  insensible,  into 
the  cold,  dark  garret,  wliere,  dry-eyed,  numb  with  misery,  she 
had  lain  until  night  had  brought  her  companions  trooping  in. 

Hidden  by  the  fast-deepening  shadows,  she  had  been  unob- 
served. Sleep,  which  fled  from  her  pain,  came  swiftly  to  their 
exhaustion, — and  so  the  slow  hours  had  crawled  along,  during 
which,  only  dumb,  inward  cries  had  rent  the  aching  little 
heart. 

The  bells  from  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame  toll  out  the  hour: 
the  storm  is  holding  its  breath  for  a  final  outbreak,  and  Souci 
raises  her  head  and  stretches  her  cramped  limbs  as  she  counts 
the  strokes. 

"  Only  three  !"  she  sighs,  drearily.  "  Only  three  !  OK 
when  will  the  light  be  here  ?"  With  a  moan  of  weariness  she 
resumes  her  former  attitude,  for  to  the  overstrung  nerves  and 
excited  brain  every  sound  seems  to  have  power  to  torture  her. 
Even  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  sleepers  stretched  on  all 
sides  of  her, — the  nibbling  of  the  mice  in  the  wainscot, — tlu: 
scuttling  of  the  rats  over  the  bare  floor, — all  familiar  sound.s 
to  her, — have  grown  suddenly  unendurable. 

A* 


10  .  SOUCL 

A  low  rumble  of  thunder  in  the  distance  is  followed  by  a 
vivid  lightning-flash,  which  brings  into  sudden,  ghastly  relief 
the  gaunt  forms  and  pallid,  upturned  faces  of  her  wretched 
companions.  Shuddering  with  a  new  horror,  she  closes  her 
eyes  and  crouches  closer  to  the  chill  wall. 

Sleep,  whose  gentle  touch  softens  into  holier  beauty  the 
rosy-flushed  faces  of  our  darlings, — as  though  the  sheeny 
brightness  of  angels'  wings  were  shed  upon  them, — seems  to 
harden  and  deepen  the  lines  and  hollows  in  these  prematurely 
old  faces,  branded  by  their  ineffaceable  birth-mark — precocity 
in  evil.  Material  here  for  countless  tragedies:  men-  and 
women-children — "not  so  much  born,  as  damned  into  the 
world" — of  all  ages,  of  divers  nationalities,  of  various  degrees 
of  birth, — all  acknowledging  a'common  fraternity  of — beggary. 
Flotsam  and  jetsam  of  'the  over-population,  gathered  from  the 
depths  and  from  the  scum :  dwarfed  in  body  and  soul ; — terri- 
ble larvae  from  whence  springs  the  hydra-headed  monster — 
revolution. 

There  is  no  philosopher  more  stoical,  no  cynic  more  rabid, 
no  heathen  more  benighted,  than  the  Parisian  gamin. 
Fearless,  subtle,  unscrupulous, — fierce  in  anger,  cunning  in 
revenge, — keen-witted,  with  a  swift  alertness  of  intelligence 
and  a  caustic  wit  peculiarly  his  own,  he  rejoices  in  his  con- 
tempt for  all  things,  human  and  divine.  To  him  life  never 
appears  a  much  brighter  or  better  thing  than  it  appears  at 
present : — a  garret  to  sleep  in  ; — a  sufficiency  of  black  bread, 
with  an  occasional  bowl  of  garlic  soup  ; — the  street  to  wander 
in  at  will ; — nothing  to  do,  and  nothing  to  fear — worse  than 
a  blow  or  a  curse, — constituting  his  idea  of  happiness. 

At  the  last  dread  Day  who  shall  be  answerable  for  that  out- 
growth of  civilization  to  which  he  belongs, — that  deformity 
which  disfigures  the  symmetry  of  the  world's  fair  face  like  a 
huge,  unsightly  goitre, — the  pifferari  of  a  great  city? 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  11 


CHAPTER  II. 

TONIO   MAKES   A   RESOLUTION. 
"  Wherefore  was  I  spared  to  cry  out,  Woe's  me  ?" 

WHENCE  comes  this  sudden  loathing  horror  of  her  sur- 
roundings ?  Why,  as  the  first  streak  of  dawn  appears  in  the 
sky,  does  Souci's  pent  anguish  burst  forth  in  that  smothered, 
agonized  cry,  "  Tonio !  oh,  Tonio !  I  cannot  suffer  it  any  longer ! 
Tonio  !  where  are  you  ?" 

Who  can  tell  precisely  when  patient  endurance  slips  over 
the  edge  of  despair — when  the  crisis  of  one's  pain  is  reached, 
and  one  must  cry  out  for  human  sympathy — or  die  ? 

Souci's  appeal  might  have  risen  from  its  moaning  iteration 
to  a  shriek,  which  would  have  startled  into  angry  conscious- 
ness all  that  motley  group  stretched  in  the  abandonment  of 
utter  weariness  on  the  naked  floor,  had  not  her  ice-cold  fingers 
come  in  contact  with  the  face  of  a  lad  lying  within  reach  of 
her  outstretched  arms.  Aroused  by  that  touch,  and  instantly 
on  the  alert,  Tonio  cautiously  creeps  towards  the  girl,  subduing 
his  voice  to  a  whisper  as  he  asks,  anxiously, — 

"Is  it  you,  Souci?  Did  you  call  me?  Ah,  I  was  dream- 
ing,— I  thought  I  heard  her  speak, — she  is  sleeping,"  he  mut- 
ters, and  composes  himself  once  more  to  slumber.  A  suppressed 
sob  breaks  from  Souci's  lips.  In  an  instant  he  has  reached 
her  side  and  has  become  aware  of  the  convulsive  quivering 
of  the  slender  form,  as  she  chokes  back  those  tearless  sobs 
which  wellnigh  suffocate  her. 

•'  What  is  this  ?"  exclaims  Tonio,  his  voice  rising  with  alarm. 
"  Why  are  you  crying  like  this,  Souci  ? — Are  you  frightened  ? 
— Have  you  seen — anything?  Speak,  can't  you  ?  What  have 
you,  then?" 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  implores  the  child,  comforted  already  by 
the  familiar  voice  and  Tonio's  evident  anxiety.  "  Don't  speak 
so  loud,  and — don't  be  vexed  with  me! — Mere  Ursule  never 
sleeps,  you  know,  and  Diudon  is  just  there  !"  she  adds,  lowering 


12  SO  17(77. 

her  voice  to  an  almost  inaudible  whisper,  as  she  points  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room. 

"  The  devil  take  him  1"  is  the  lad's  fierce  rejoinder.  "  Was 
it  he  who  made  you  cry,  with  any  of  his  infernal  tricks  ?" 

"No,  no!  Oh,  Tonip,  do  speak  low, — you  frighten  me  so; 
and,  besides,"  she  adds,  with  a  sort  of  disdainful  apathy,  "  I 
am  not  crying  :  I  never  cry!" 

"  Well,  if  you're  not  crying,  you're  shaking  like — like  any- 
thing,— and  you're  all  cold  and  scared  like.  You  must  have 
seen  something  !  Come,  Souci,  tell  me  !" 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence,  while  she  leans  her  head  against 
the  boy's  shoulder,  incapable  of  further  speech  in  the  intense 
relief  his  words  have  brought  her  after  the  intolerable  silent 
suffering  of  the  past  night.  Now  and  then  a  long-drawn, 
shuddering  sigh  escapes  her,  as  she  rests  there,  with  his  arm 
about  her,  while  he  chafes  gently  her  cold  fingers,  breathing 
upon  them  from  time  to  time.  After  a  little,  he  slips  off  his 
worn  jacket  and  places  it  about  the  girl's  shoulders,  at  which 
she  makes  no  resistance :  it  is  so  sweet  to  be  cared  for ;  Tonio 
will  be  cold,  but  then,  she  had  suffered  so  long 

Replacing  his  arm  about  her,  the  lad  observes  that  she 
winces  at  his  touch. 

"  What  is  this,  Souci?    You've  been  hurt,  somehow " 

"  Yes,"  answers  the  plaintive  little  voice.  "  She  tried  to 
kill  me  yesterday, — she  tried  her  best  to  kill  me, — and,  oh,  I 
wish  she  had !"  the  child  concludes,  with  sudden  passion. 

"  Pah  !  I  hate  that  sort  of  talk  !"  returns  Tonio,  promptly. 
''  Who  tried  to  kill  you, — and  what  for?" 

"  Mere  Ursule,"  whispers  Souci,  glancing  fearfully  around 
her.  "  She  beat  me  with  the  crutch,  worse  than  ever,  and, 
oh,  I  ache  so ! — I  have  not  slept  all  night,  and  the  wind 
howled,  and  the  rats  were  so  dreadful  hungry, — I  could  see 
their  white  teeth  in  the  dark  corners  !  Ugh  !" 

As  she  thus  sums  up  her  miseries,  Tonio  gnaws  his  lip 
viciously,  his  face  darkening  with  a  heavy  frown. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she-devil  dared  to  beat  you  ?" 
he  bursts  forth  at  last,  forgetting  caution  in  his  excitement. 
"  Say  it  again,  Souci !  Tell  me  .all  about  it, — be  quick  !" 

He  is  breathing  hard  and  fast;  his  voice  has  grown  strangely 
hoarse.  The  girl  moans  softly  as  she  rocks  herself  to  and 
fro.  Is  Tonio  angry  with  her  too? 


CHILD.  13 

"Why  did  she  beat  you?"  he  urges  again.  "What  had 
you  done  ?  Speak,  can't  you  ?" 

"  She  beat  me  because  I  did  not  go  out  with  you,"  Souci 
replies,  in  a  weary  voice.  "  She  said  we  made  more  money 
when  we  went  together, — and  that  she  had  six  months  more 
to  get  out  of  me,  and  she  would  make  me  worth  my  keep  or 
she  would  kill  me,  and  then " 

"  And  then  ?     Go  on  !" 

'*  Then  she  said  she  would  beat  you,  too,  and  cut  off  your 
ears,  and  I  got  wild  !  I  told  her  if  she  dared  to  strike  you 
or  cut  off  your  ears  that  I  would  run  away, — that  I  would  go 
back  to  the  '  TrouveV  or  to  old  Pierre — and  that — /  would 
stick  a  knife  into  her!"  (This  last  threat  is  triumphantly 
confessed.) 

"  Go  on  !"  is  Tonio's  sole  comment. 

"  Then  she  held  me  by  the  wrists  and  beat  me ;  but  I  got 
free,  and  then  I  struck  her — and  tore  her  cap — and,  I — think 
— I  bit  her!  Fichtre!  I  left  the  print  of  my  nails  on  her!" 

Souci  glancing  furtively  at  her  companion,  to  see  how  he 
receives  this  astounding  information,  is  surprised  and  hurt  at 
his  apparent  unconcern.  Through  the  gloom  of  struggling 
dawn  she  can  discern  the  outline  of  his  figure  drawn  up  in  a 
shapeless  heap  before  her.  His  head  is  bowed  upon  his  knees, 
clasped  about  with  his  thin  arms.  What  does  it  mean?  Is 
he  not  going  to  speak  to  her  ?  Has  he — can  he  have  fallen, 
asleep  again  ? 

There  is  agony  in  the  thought,  to  this  wretched  little  crea- 
ture, hungering  so  intensely  after  sympathy  and  tenderness. 
She  forgets  to  rock  herself  or  to  moan :  a  strange  apathy 
creeps  over  her ;  she  feels  as  if  she  were  turning  to  stone. 
The  jacket  slips  unheeded  from  her  shoulders ;  she  is  no  longer 
cold  ;  the  sting  of  her  bruises  has  ceased.  She  has  reached 
that  stage  of  misery  when  a  merciful  numbness  robs  every 
faculty  of  its  power  of  suffering. 

"  He  is  like  all  the  rest !"  she  sighs,  wearily.  "  Nobody  ever 
cared  for  me, — nobody  !" 

The  rain  has  ceased,  the  clouds  are  drifting  apart.  A  pale 
shimmer  of  daylight  lies  athwart  the  eastern  sky;  faint  gleams 
pierce  even  tlir  grimy  wimlmv-panes  of  the  gruesome  apart- 
ment where  Souci  sits  thinking  her  bitter  thoughts.  II.  r 
eyes  are  resting  now  on  the  pathetic  array  of  musical  instru- 

2 


14  SOUCI. 

ments,  standing  in  a,  melancholy  row  against  the  wall, — worn- 
out  harps  and  phthisicky  guitars,  tympanum-torturing  hurdy- 
gurdies  and  cracked  violins, — resting  from  their  labors,  trying 
not  to  dream  of  the  Anvil  Chorus  or  that  endless  duo  from  La 
Favorita. 

From  these  the  sad  eyes  stray  listlessly  over  the  various 
objects  dimly  visible  about  her,  falling  at  last  upon  a  grotesque 
figure  stretched  across  the  threshold  of  the  room.  This  is 
Dindon,  Mere  Ursule's  grandson  and  able  coadjutor.  He  is 
a  sharp-witted  youth,  who  unites  the  strength  of  a  man  with 
the  cruel  instincts  of  a  bad-hearted  boy.  He  is  of  powerful 
build,  with  a  thick  bull  neck,  and  short,  bowed  legs,  of  whose 
strength  he  is  not  unduly  proud.  He  aids  his  grandmother 
in  entrapping  into  her  den  the  waifs  and  strays  which  abound 
in  the  luxurious  city.  He  also  assists  in  teaching  them  the 
professional  lie  in  the  professional  whine,  to  strum  the  most 
harrowing  of  the  operatic  gems  on  the  wheezy  instruments 
allotted  to  them,  or  to  squeak  forth,  in  their  childish  fal- 
setto, spicy  ballads  of  an  equivocal  morality,  for  the  support 
of  the  Institution.  A  few  favored  ones  he  also  instructs  in  a 
dexterous  sleight  of  hand,  which  is  playfully  indulged  in  to 
the  detriment  of  their  neighbors'  pockets.  For  Dindon  is  a 
lad  of  many  resources  and  varied  accomplishments,  some  of 
which  have  once  or  twice  brought  him  almost  within  reach  of 
the  clutches  of  the  law. 

Mere  Ursule,  well  stricken  in  years,  and  of  that  witch-like 
ugliness  seen  to  perfection  in  old  Frenchwomen,  with  her 
avaricious,  gleaming  eyes,  her  crab-apple  wrinkles,  her  moth- 
patches  and  warts,  and  grizzly-bearded  chin  ;  with  her  hoarse, 
crackling  voice,  and  ever-ready  crutch,  is  not  held  in  greater 
abhorrence  than  this  young  monster,  her  grandson. 

Souci  wonders  vaguely  of  what  he  can  be  dreaming,  as  he 
rolls  his  red,  shock-head  about,  and  she  sees  his  wide,  thin- 
lipped  mouth  expand  into  a  sardonic  grin,  disclosing  the  great, 
cruel-looking,  square  teeth.  With  a  slight  shudder  she  averts 
her  eyes,  and  now  they  turn  yearningly  towards  the  strip  of  sky 
visible  through  a  broken  pane, — a  strip  of  the  pearly  gray  of 
early  dawn,  with  here  and  there,  still  trembling,  the  faint,  fading 
glimmer  of  a  star.  How  wistfully  she  watches  them,  until, 
one  by  one,  they  vanish  before  the  dawning  of  the  morning ; 
her  great,  sorrowful  eyes  filled  with  the  undefined  longing 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  15 

of  the  soul  to  be  free,  to  be  floating  away  somewhere,  up 
there — among  those  fleecy  clouds,  near  those  tranquil,  beaming 
>tai  >. — somewhere  out  of  the  reach  of  blows  and  curses,  hunger 
and  tears ! 

It  was  an  old  yearning  of  this  child's.  She  could  never  see 
a  bird  or  a  butterfly,  or  any  winged  thing,  without  envying 
its  power  of  soaring  into  a  higher,  purer,  safer  atmosphere 
than  that  in  which  she  had  always  drawn  her  breath  gaspingly. 
She  would  linger,  fascinated,  to  watch  a  poor  frail  moth  flut- 
tering gayly  about  the  gaslight  of  a  shop-window  until  its 
reckless  career  ended  in  the  inevitable  suicide,  when  she  would 
turn  away  with  a  sigh  of  envy,  seeing  naught  of  sadness  in 
this  pathetic  epitome  of  life.  "  They  always  seem  to  find  the 
light  somehow, — and — they  always  die  so  soon  /"  she  would 
murmur,  to  herself. 

'"  Why  was  I  born  ?  oh,  why  was  I  born  ?"  Souci's  soul  is 
asking  this  solemn  question  through  those  despairing,  uplifted 
eyes.  This  question  which  swells  the  vast  chorus  in  that  awful 
"  cry  of  the  children,"  ascending  ceaselessly  from  this  toiling, 
sweating,  unintelligible  world  of  ours  to  the  great,  far-off, 
white  throne. 

Who  shall  answer? 

There  is  a  key  to  this  problem :  God  holds  it  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    PERILOUS   ESCAPE. 

"  Wait,  my  faith  is  large  in  time, 

And  that  which  brings  it  to  a  perfect  end." — TENNYSON. 

IN  the  semi-stupor  into  which  Souci  has  sunk,  she  watches, 
without  a  sensation  of  interest  or  curiosity,  the  movements  of 
Tonio,  when  at  length  he  rises  stiffly  to  his  feet  and  hurriedly 
gets  himself  into  his  jacket.  Then,  cautiously  making  hia 
way  to  the  end  of  the  room,  he  selects  two  pairs  from  the 
number  of  well-worn  sabots,  slings  his  violin  about  his  shoul- 


16  SOUC1. 

ders,  and,  seizing  Souci's  hood  and  tambourine,  rapidly  and 
noiselessly  retraces  his  steps. 

Kneeling  beside  the  girl,  he  approaches  his  lips  to  her  ear, 
whispering  firmly, — 

"  Wake  up,  Souci !  I  say,  wake  up  !  I  am  going  to  take 
you  away  from  here  forever!  Come!  wake  up  !  Do  you  hear, 
Souci  ?  You  shall  never  be  beaten  again!" 

The  wan  face  of  the  child  relaxes  not  in  a  single  line ;  the 
great  white  lids  have  fallen  over  the  vacant,  staring  eyes. 
Tonio  waxes  impatient.  Catching  her  thin  arm  almost 
roughly,  his  whisper  grows  harsh  and  shrill. 

"  I  say,  Souci,  don't  go  to  sleep  again.  We  are  going  to 
run  away,  I  tell  you.  See,  the  sky  is  lightening,  it  is  almost 
morning ;  there  is  no  time  to  lose  !  Come  !" 

Slowly  the  little  unkempt  head  turns  a  weary,  white  face 
towards  him,  the  heavy  lids  are  raised,  and  the  sorrowful  eyes 
open  widely  upon  him.  "  What  ? — What  do  you  want?"  she 
asks,  in  a  dreary  monotone.  "  Oh,  let  me  be  !"  With  a  shud- 
dering sigh  she  turns  shrinking  to  the  wall. 

Tonio  is  in  despair.  "  Souci !"  His  lips  touch  her  ear, 
his  voice  sounds  menacing, — his  voice,  which  is  always  lowered 
and  softened  when  it  addresses  her.  "  You  must  get  up  and 
come  with  me  at  once,  or  I  shall  leave  you  here  !  /  am  going. 
You  will  be  beaten  to  death  if  you  stay.  Come  with  me, — I 
shall  never  let  them  bring  you  back  here.  Sacre  nom  de 
Dieu  !  Will  you  move,  or  must  I  carry  you  ?" 

At  last  these  vehement  words,  uttered  with  desperate  force, 
seem  to  penetrate  the  inner  consciousness  which  had  grown 
benumbed.  With  a  half-stifled  ejaculation  the  girl  strives  to 
raise  herself  to  her  feet,  but,  weakened  by  suffering,  stiff  with 
bruises,  and  with  every  muscle  strained,  she  staggers  and 
clings  moaning  to  Tonic's  outstretched  arm. 

"  I  cannot — oh,  I  cannot !"  she  murmurs,  while  the  lad  ties 
on  her  hood  and  forces  the  tambourine  between  the  cold,  rigid 
fingers.  "  And  see  !  there  !  that  is  Dindon  !  We  can  never 
pass  him !" 

Tonio,  following  the  direction  of  her  startled  gaze,  distin- 
guishes through  the  gloom  the  bulky  outline  of  Dindon 's  form 
lying  across  the  threshold.  His  heart  sinks  within  him. 
"  Courage  !"  he  whispers.  (i  We  must  pass  him  !  Follow  me, 
and  mind  where  you  step  !" 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  17 

Stealthily  they  creep  along,  close  to  the  wall,  scarcely  daring 
to  breathe,  stepping  carefully  over  the  sprawling  limbs  of 
their  sleeping  companions.  Safely  they  reach  the  spot  where 
their  exit  is  barred  by  the  hateful  figure  of  Dindon.  Palpi- 
tating all  over  with  excitement,  and  wild  with  the  joyful  hope 
of  escape,  Souci's  braced  nerves  carry  her  safely  over  the  ob- 
stacle. Tonio  is  about  to  follow,  when  the  sound  of  a  low 
chuckle  freezes  the  blood  in  their  veins.  Glancing  downward 
they  perceive  the  wicked-gleaming  eyes,  the  wide-grinning 
mouth  of  the  enemy,  whilst  Tonio  becomes  aware  that  his  ankle 
is  firmly  clasped,  as  in  a  steel-trap,  by  ten  relentless  fingers. 

"  Ah  ha  I"  sneers  the  young  ruffian.  "  my  little  beauties ! — 
my  innocent  little  pigeons ! — my  sweet  sugar-plums !  You 
think  of  taking  a  little  promenade  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
do  you  ?  You  like  to  ramble  in  solitude, — to  sing  your  love- 
ditties  to  the  stars, — do  you?  Well,  don't  let  me  interfere 
with  your  little  plan, — only  leave  this  leg  behind  you,  will 
you  ?"  So  saying,  he  pinches  the  thing  of  skin  and  bone 
viciously,  and  gives  it  a  wicked  twist,  which  almost  causes 
Tonio  to  lose  his  equilibrium. 

Bracing  himself  against  the  door-post,  the  unhappy  lad 
makes  a  futile  effort  to  wrench  his  foot  from  the  grip  of  those 
cruel  hands,  while  his  face  grows  ashen  with  rage  and  pain. 

"Isn't  it  comfortable,  poor  little  dear?"  whines  Dindon, 
exerting  all  his  powerful  strength  without  apparent  effort. 
"  Come,  now  !  the  good  Mere  Ursule  shall  make  it  all  comfort- 
able for  you,  and  for  the  little  one  there.  Sapristi!  how 
wicked  she  looks !" 

"  Devil !"  whispers  Tonio,  hoarsely.  "  Take  your  hands  off! 
Let  me  go,  I  tell  you,  or  you'll  repent  it  for  the  rest  of  your 
life!  Off!  I  say,  off!"  And  the  boy's  eyes  gleam  dan- 
gerously. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  chuckles  the  brute,  "  it  is  caught  in  the 
trap  !  caught  by  the  leg  and  can't  get  out !  Oh,  dear,  no ! 
not  by  any  means,  ha !  ha  !" 

At  this  moment,  like  a  subtle  poison  which  fires  the  brain, 
glides  a  whisper  into  Tonic's  ear,  "  Kill  him  !  Here  !  kill 
him  !"  and  the  solid  wooden  sabot,  which  had  fallen  from  the 
boy's  hand  at  the  shock  of  Dindou's  exclamation,  is  thrust 
into  his  clenched  fingers  by  Souci's,  no  longer  trembling.  A 
gleam  of  wicked  joy  flashes  from  Tonic's  eyes. 

2* 


18  souci. 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  ?"  he  hisses  between  his  teeth. 
For  answer  Dindon  gives  his  leg  another  violent  wrench, 
which  forces  him  down  hard  upon  one  kuee. 

Swift  as  thought  the  sabot  is  raised  and  brought  down  with 
a  firm,  well-aimed  blow,  which  strikes  Dindon  full  on  the  left 
temple.  Without  a  cry  or  sound  the  bullet-head  falls  back 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  great  hands  relax  their  hold.  With 
a  spring  Tonio  clears  the  passage,  flies  down  the  creaking 
staircase,  through  the  long,  mouldy-smelling  apartment  below, 
where  Mere  Ursule's  heavy  breathing  proclaims  her  where- 
abouts, gaining  the  little  weed-grown  court  without  pausing  to 
take  breath  ;  Souci  following  like  a  shadow,  feeling  a  strange 
exaltation,  which  has  conquered  fear,  bringing  out  into  the 
yellow,  gleaming  daybreak  a  little  pallid  face,  all  alight  with 
the  fire  of  the  evil  spirit  within  her, — that  same  spirit  that 
lent  strength  and  courage  to  Judith  and  to  Jael  in  days 
gone  by. 

Closing  the  door  behind  them,  Tonio  glances  ruefully  at  the 
cord  by  which  the  spring-bolt  of  the  porte-cochere  is  drawn 
from  its  socket.  This  cord  has  been  twisted,  high  above  their 
reach,  around  a  hook  driven  into  the  wall.  The  court-yard  is 
empty  of  ladder,  pole,  or  the  slightest  suggestion  of  assistance. 
With  one  glance  Souci  takes  in  the  situation,  and  as  Tonio 
turns  towards  her  with  a  helpless  look,  she  drops  her  tam- 
bourine and  sabots  on  the  ground,  springing  to  his  side,  and 
crying, — 

"  Up  with  me,  Tonio,  quickly,  on  your  shoulders  !  I  can 
manage  it !"  Like  a  cat  she  scrambles  up  and  stands  erect, 
with  her  bare  feet  on  Tonio's  shoulder,  while  she,  rapidly 
untwines  the  cord  with  both  hands. 

A  moment  later  they  stand  outside  the  door,  which  has 
closed  behind  them, — outside,  on  the  threshold  of  the  big, 
cruel,  over-thronged  world, — a  pitiful  enough  little  pair  of 
pilgrims. 

Tonio,  raising  his  cap,  passes  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
on  which  great  drops  of  moisture  have  gathered  ;  then,  stoop- 
ing, he  presses  his  lips  to  the  thin  cheek  of  the  child  who 
stands  motionless  beside  him, — dazed,  shivering,  with  wide- 
dilated  eyes,  and  quick,  panting  breath.  A  moment  she 
stands  thus,  while  the  lad  thrusts  his  feet  into  his  sabots,  then 
gravely  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  her  bosom. 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  19 

This  one  outward  symbol  is  her  faith.  Its  meaning,  its 
awful  significance,  are  unknown  to  her.  She  has  seen  it  made 
use  of  in  supreme  moments  of  other  lives, — in  the  fear  of 
death, — in  the  agony  of  remorse  or  despair, — and  she  has 
adopted  it,  as  she  has  many  another  trick  of  gesticulation,  with 
an  imitative  facility  peculiar  to  her.  Even  Souci  has  her 
modified  Fetichism. 

A  man,  extinguishing  a  street-lamp  opposite,  glances  curi- 
ously at  the  children,  smiles  at  the  little  pantomime,  whose 
tragic  significance  escapes  him,  and  passes  on  with  his  ladder. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  loves  me ! — Tonio  loves  me  after  all !"  Souci 
is  whispering  to  her  heart,  as  she  allows  him  to  slip  her  chilled 
feet  into  their  sabots,  and  mechanically  follows  him  along  the 
narrow  Rue  des  Acacias,  until  they  turn  into  a  broader  thor- 
oughfare. Here,  breathless  from  their  rapid  movement,  and 
completely  exhausted  by  the  contending  emotions  of  the  past 
hour,  they  sink  down  upon  the  steps  of  a  small  estammet  to  rest. 

Half  stifled  by  the  thumping  of  their  hearts  against  their 
ribs,  they  sit  gasping,  silently-  trying  to  realize  the  momentous 
fact  .of  their  escape. 

Tonio  is  the  first  to  recover  his  sang-froid.  Pulling  off"  one 
of  his  sabots,  he  studies  the  heel  of  it  attentively. 

"  There  is  no  blood  on  it,"  he  whispers,  at  last,  drawing  a 
long  breath  of  relief.  "  See,  Souciette  !  do  you  think  it  hurt 
him  much  ?  He  dropped  as  though  he  had  been  shot.  Souci," 
— leaning  closer  to  her,  and  with  a  tone  of  horror, — "  do  you 
think  it  hilled  him  ?n 

The  girl  glances  at  the  heavy  wooden  shoe.  A  faint  streak 
of  red  dyes  her  sallow  cheek  as  she  replies,  fervently,  "  I  hope 
so,  oh,  /  hope  so  /" 

Tonio  stares  at  her.  "  Souci !"  he  cries,  "  do  you  know 
what  you  are  saying?  Would  you  be  glad  to  have  me  a 
murderer?  If  he  dies  I  shall  be  put  in  prison, — I  should  be 
killed." 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  She  covers  his  lips  with  her  hand.  "  Don't 
say  such  things.  It  was  good  to  kill  him, — the  big,  cruel, 
wicked  boy.  I  hope  he  is  dead, — the  poor  little  children  we 
left  behind  us  will  not  be  tortured  any  more  by  him.  Poor 
little  Tou-Tou  !  Oh,  I  wish  you  had  killed  him  long  ago  !" 
Her  eyes  flash  with  joy  at  the  thought. 

The  lad  watches  her  wonderingly.     "  How  wicked  you  are, 


20  SOUCI. 

Souci !"  he  says,  sadly.  "  I  believe  some  day,  when  you  are 
grown  big,  you  will  kill  somebody.  You  look  as  if  you  could 
now." 

"  Do  I  ?"  She  laughs  hysterically.  "  Well,  yes,  perhaps  I 
shall — if  ever  I  see  any  one  as  wicked  as  Dindon,  and  I  am 
strong  enough.  Sapristi!  I  will  kill  him  as  easily  as  I  crush 
this  ugly  black  beetle."  And  she  grinds  underfoot  viciously 
an  innocent  insect  of  unwieldy  proportions  which  struggles 
vainly  to  get  out  of  her  reach. 

To  Tonio  this  sudden  display  of  a  savage  instinct  is  revolt- 
ing ;  he  averts  his  head  with  a  shudder  of  disgust. 

"I  tell  you,"  cries  the  over-excited  child,  ignoring  his 
disapprobation  of  her  sanguinary  sentiments, — "  I  tell  you  the 
world  is  full  of  bad  people,  of  cruel  people.  One  might  starve 
among  them  and  they  would  not  give  one  a  crust.  One  might 
crawl  half  frozen  to  their  door  and  they  would  kick  one  back 
into  the  gutter.  Oh,  I  know  them !  I  don't  forget,  and  I 
never  shall  forget ;  and  when  I'm  grown  up  I  shall  kill  every 
cruel  man — or  woman — I  see  !"  She  ends  with  a  harsh  laugh, 
and  the  beautiful  eyes  glitter  with  a  demoniac  light. 

"  Bah  !"  is  Tonio's  sole  comment. 

"  You'll  see  !"  she  cries,  fiercely.  "  You'll  see  !  Do  you 
think  I  am  always  going  to  be  a  helpless  little  child  ?  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  spend  all  my  life  screeching  through  the 
streets  and  picking  up  the  coppers  they  fling  at  me  ?  Do  you 
think  tJiat,  Tonio  ?  Because,  if  you  do,  you're  mistaken  ! 
One  day  I  shall  be  a  great  woman, — yes ! — what  are  you 
staring  at  ? — I  shall  be  a  great  woman  !  I  know  it !  I  feel 
it,  here  !"  She  clasps  her  thin  little  hands  over  her  wildly- 
beating  heart,  and  her  face  grows  transfigured  by  the  intense 
excitement  which  sways  her  like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  as  she 
stands  now  looking  down  into  Tonio's  upturned,  scornful  face. 
Presently  she  speaks  again  in  the  dreamy,  far-off  voice  of  an 
improvisatrice,  while  the  light  gradually  dies  out  of  her  eyes 
and  is  followed  by  their  habitually  mournful  softness.  "  Ah, 
yes,"  she  says,  "  you  cannot  understand  or  believe  me,  I  know  ; 
but  you'll  know  some  day  what  I  feel  here  now.  I  am  ugly,  and 
little,  and  poor, — oh,  I  know  all  that  as  well  as  you  ! — but  one 
day  I  shall  sit  on  a  throne,  and  men  and  women  shall  kneel 
before  me  !  And  then  the  sun  shall  shine  forever,  and  the  wind 
shall  never  moan  and  cry  through  the  night;  rain  shall  never 


NOBODY'S   CHILD.  21 

trickle  like  cold  tears  down  the  window-pane,  nor  the  flowers 
shiver  and  drop  their  leaves  in  the  cold  blast.  Oh,  I  will  have 
none  of  these  things  to  make  my  heart  ache!  But  I  will 
have  Mere  Ursule  brought  to  the  block,  and  I  will  burn  to  the 
ground  that  miserable  place  in  the  Rue  des  Acacias !  And 
Dindon  shall  rot  in  a  dungeon,  and  old  Pierre  shall  be  whipped 
in  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  !"  bhe  stops,  panting,  her  face  grow- 
ing strangely  pallid ;  then,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  And  Tou-Tou, 
poor  little  Tou-Tou,  and  all  the  others,  shall  be  brought  into  a 
great  garden,  full  of  fountains  and  trees,  and  music  that  never 
stops ;  and  they  shall  have  enough  to  eat,  and  warm  clothes, 
and  more  flowers  than  they  can  gather, — and — they  shall  never 
Le  beaten  again  /" 

Once  more  she  pauses,  and  Tonio  whispers,  gently,  "  And 
I,  Souci,  have  I  no  place  in  the  garden  ?" 

An  exquisite  smile  breaks  over  the  girl's  wan  face.  With- 
out withdrawing  her  gaze  from  the  distance,  she  stretches  out 
a  thin,  brown  hand,  and,  laying  it  tenderly  on  the  boy's  curling 
hair,  replies,  in  a  voice  of  vibrating  sweetness,  "  No  place  for 
yoii,  Tonio?  Oh,  yes;  you  shall  sit  beside  me  on  my  (krone, 
and  le  my  king  /"  As  the  last  words  leave  her  lips,  she  sways 
slightly  back  and  forth  ;  the  next  moment  she  lies  at  his  feet, 
white  and  rigid  as  death.  The  bow  had  been  strained  to  its 
utmost  tension, — the  cord  had  snapped. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MADAME    MARGOT — A   GOOD    SAMARITAN. 

..."  For  mercy  has  a  human  heart ; 
Pity,  a  human  face." 

To  see  a  man  stunned  by  a  fall  or  a  blow,  or  reduced  to 
inanition  for  want  of  food,  is  not  entirely  foreign  to  Toriio's 
experience ;  but  there  is  something  so  awful  in  this  sudden 
and,  to  him,  unaccountable  insensibility,  this  frozen  immobility, 
which  simulates  the  last  dread  sleep  so  perfectly,  that  the  poor 


22  SOUCL 

lad  can  only  cast  himself  down  beside  the  little  senseless  form 
of  his  companion,  crying  wildly,  "  Souci !  Souci !  open  your 
eyes !  speak  to  me !  oh,  you  will  not  die  and  leave  me  here 
alone  /"  his  voice  rising  to  a  shriek  as  the  idea  forces  itself 
upon  him  that  she  may  even  now  be  dead. 

As  that  cry  breaks  from  his  heart  in  the  stillness  of  early 
morning,  a  window  is  thrown  open  above,  a  woman's  night- 
capped  head  protrudes  itself,  and  a  voice  calls  out, — 

"  What  is  this?  Who  is  there?  Away  with  you  ;  a  pair 
of  tramps,  bringing  folks  out  of  their  beds  with  your  noise ! 
For  shame !  As  usual,  not  a  sergent-de-ville  within  a  kilo- 
metre !"  And  she  withdraws  her  head,  wrathfully. 

"  Tiens  !  she  is  dead,  the  little  girl !  Say,  then,  Justine,  did 
you  not  see  the  little  girl?"  This  time  a  man's  voice,  and  in 
it  a  quaver  of  awe  and  pity. 

Tonio  raises  his  streaming  eyes.  "  Yes,  monsieur,"  he 
groans,  "  she  is  dead — dead  from  want !"  And  he  stretches 
himself  once  more  on  the  cold  stone  beside  her,  face  downward. 

Justine  is  not  many  seconds  tying  on  a  woollen  petticoat,  and, 
adjusting  a  knitted  shawl  about  her  portly  shoulders,  has  de- 
scended the  staircase  and  unbarred  the  door  before  her  better- 
half  has  resumed  his  interrupted  morning  nap.  Quickly  and 
gently  she  raises  the  heavy  head  of  the  unconscious  child  upon 
her  arm,  glancing  pitifully  at  the  half-closed,  unspeculative 
eyes,  the  wasted  features,  the  parted  white  lips  which  yet  wear 
a  ghastly  smile.  "  Pauwette"  she  utters,  "  dead  from  want ! 
Mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu  !"  Carrying  her  within,  she  lays  her 
on  a  table,  and  directs  Tonio  to  take  down  the  shutters.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  obeys,  and,  when  the  daylight  pours  into 
the  room,  Justine  shakes  her  head  doubtfully.  This  is  no 
common  swoon ;  this  waxen  pallor  is  death's  own  hue ;  these 
rigid  limbs  are  those  of  a  corpse !  "  Pshaw  !  this  is  wasting 
time,  and  perhaps,  after  all " 

She  lifts  a  jug  from  under  the  counter,  and  holding  it  across 
to  Tonio, — who  stands  mute  now,  a  picture  of  despair, — she 
orders  him  in  quick,  firm  tones  to  fill  it  with  rain-water  from  the 
hogshead  in  the  yard.  The  boy  flies  to  do  her  bidding  through 
the  door  at  which  she  has  pointed,  while  Justine  rapidly  pours 
into  a  glass  some  dark-colored  liquid,  which  she  tries  in  vain 
to  force  through  Souci's  tight-clenched  teeth.  Presently  she 
thrusts  her  hand  under  the  ragged  frock.  "  But,  mon  Dieu  !" 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  23 

fhe  exclaims  as  Tonio  enters,  "  this  child  is  not  dead !  her 
heart  throbs  still, — like  a  weak  little  bird's,  it  is  true, — but 
there  is  life  !"  And  then,  as  he  casts  himself  with  a  loud  cry 
of  joy  on  his  knees  beside  her,  Justine  dashes  handful  after 
handful  of  cold  water  in  the  stony,  upturned  face.  Presently 
the  lips  relax  a  little,  and  quick  as  thought  a  few  drops  of  the 
liquid  are  poured  down  the  quivering  throat.  These  are  fol- 
lowed by  a  spoonful  of  cordial,  and  soon  the  good  woman's 
efforts  are  rewarded  by  seeing  the  great,  sad  eyes  gazing  up  at 
her  wonderingly,  while  the  tremulous  lips  form  weakly  the 
word  "  Tonio !" 

"  Hush  !  don't  speak,  little  one, — not  just  yet !"  and  as  the 
lids  threaten  to  sink  once  more  over  those  wonderful  eyes, 
another  spoonful  of  cordial  is  administered.  Tonio,  still  kneel- 
ing, fixes  his  gaze  upon  Justine's  face  with  the  rapt  expression 
of  a  votary  before  the  shrine  of  his  patron  saint ;  he  longs  to 
kins  the  border  of  her  woollen  petticoat.  Dares  he  do  so? 
He  advances  one  trembling  hand  ;  she  glances  down  upon 
the  eager  face,  frowns,  and  says,  with  a  strong  patois  accent, 
"  Va-t-en,  mon  petit !  I  am  going  to  carry  the  little  one 
into  the  kitchen  ;  go  before,  and  open  the  windows, — it  is 
breakfast  she  wants,  sure  enough." 

Few  men  or  women  in  their  quartier  could  have  believed 
Madame  Margot's  sharp  little  black  eyes  capable  of  holding 
the  expression  of  kindly  interest  which  lights  them  up  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  she  stands,  with  a  hand  on  each  hip,  con- 
templating a  couple  of  vagrants,  up  to  their  eyes  in  bowls  of 
bread  and  bouillon. 

Justine  Margot  has  faithfully  earned  the  reputation  of  being 
the  thriftiest  housewife,  the  keenest  business-woman,  the  best 
mother,  and — the  sharpest-tongued  shrew  in  the  faubourg. 
Her  husband,  a  great,  lumbering,  tawny-bearded  fellow,  with 
a  deep  voice  and  undecided  opinions,  made  himself  of  much 
consequence  at  the  clubs  of  the  workingmen,  in  rival  taverns, 
everywhere  but  at  home.  There  he  preserved  a  discreet  hu- 
mility of  deportment,  and  was  rarely  allowed  to  draw  himself 
up  to  his  full  height.  In  the  business  of  the  estaminet  he 
was  emphatically  a  sleeping  partner,  his  wife  keeping  the  books 
and  managing  all  tilings  with  a  rigid  eye  to  their  interests, 
which  never  slumbered  nor  slept.  They  had,  according  to 
French  prescience,  limited  their  family  to  three  sons,  all  of 


24  SOUCI. 

whom  resembled  the  mother.  It  seemed  as  if  the  ruling  spirit 
would  even  deny  their  father  a  share  in  his  own  offspring. 
These  boys  were  well  clothed,  well  taught,  well  behaved  ;  they 
loved  while  they  feared  their  sharp-eyed  mother,  and  held 
their  big,  gentle-voiced  father  in  unmitigated  contempt. 

Justine  Margot  was  not  in  any  respect  a  bad-hearted  woman  ; 
in  mind  she  was  above  the  average;  she  had  only  made  the 
mistake  common  to  the  daughters  of  Eve, — married  the  wrong 
man. 

"  She  sleeps  like  a  young  dormouse, — that  child,"  she  says, 
glancing  over  her  shoulder  at  Souci  curled  up  in  a  clothes- 
basket  on  a  couple  of  shawls  ;  "  she  was  just  starved  and  worn 
out,  that's  what  ailed  her." 

These  words  are  the  sole  explanation  vouchsafed  to  the 
good-humored-looking  giant  when  he  slouches  into  the  kitchen 
at  Justine's  shrill  call  to  breakfast.  The  three  boys  are  al- 
ready seated  at  the  table,  each  with  a  small  bowl  of  soup 
before  him ;  their  father  drops  into  his  chair  beside  them. 
Madame  stands  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  with  a  loaf  of 
bread  in  one  hand  and  a  great  knife  brandished  in  the  other. 
Tonio  sits  near  the  fire,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  this  scene 
of  domestic  comfort. 

"Ah,  musicians,  are  they?''  ventures  M.  Margot,  his  eye 
resting  upon  Souci's  tambourine,  which  hangs  beside  an  egg- 
beater  on  the  spotless  wall.  "  Look  out  that  they  don't  steal 
anything,  my  love  !"  he  drawls. 

"  Bah  !  you're  a  fool !  Mind  your  breakfast,  that's  all 
you've  got  to  do !"  And  she  slaps  down  on  the  table  before 
him  a  huge  slice  of  bread  already  buttered,  and  proceeds  to 
perform  the  same  service  for  the  three  children.  Steadily, 
tirelessly,  she  stands  there,  cutting  round  after  round  from  the 
yard-long  loaf,  spreading  the  butter  upon  them,  distributing 
them  with  impartial  liberality.  The  boys  and  their  father  de- 
vour their  slices  silently.  Generally  Madame  prefers  silence  : 
it  expedites  the  conclusion  of  the  meal.  To-day  she  is  in  a 
loquacious  mood  ;  somewhat  stirred,  perhaps,  by  the  event  of 
the  morning. 

"  She's  an  ugly  little  toad,"  she  begins,  with  another  glance 
at  the  clothes-basket ;  "  as  yellow  as  a  lemon  and  thin  as  a 
skeleton.  I  don't  believe  the  child  ever  had  enough  to  eat  in 
her  life  before," — almost  a  smile  on  the  woman's  lips  here. 


CHILD.  25 

"  Why  don't  you  speak?"  she  cries  out,  sharply,  as  her  hus- 
band crunches  his  bread  in  a  safe  silence. 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?"  he  demands,  maekly. 

"  Ah !  you  are  enough  to  ^ry  the  patience  of  a  saint ;  rn  ! 
I  must  not  only  speak  for  you,  but  give  you  ideas  too ;  ah, 
mon  Dieu !"  It  is  not  an  angry  but  a  weary  sigh  with  which 
she  concludes  her  sentence.  The  inane  simplicity  of  her  part- 
ner was  her  heaviest  cross ;  she  often  wished  that  he  would 
box  her  ears,  or  assert  himself  in  any  manly  manner.  His 
unvarying  mildness  was  as  irritating  to  her  as  a  Spanish-fly- 
blister  which  she  dare  not  tear  off  for  fear  of  excoriating  her 
flesh. 

"  How  many  slices  have  you  had,  my  sons  ?" 

(Chorus.)  "Eight." 

"  And  you.  Jules  ?" 

"  Eleven." 

"  You've  had  your  last,  then  ;  go !"  And  she  sits  down  to 
her  cold  bouillon,  whilst  the  boys  seize  their  caps  and  books 
and  vanish.  Monsieur  Margot  drags  his  long  limbs  over  to 
the  basket  in  which  Souci  sleeps  tranquilly. 

"  She  is  thin,  that's  a  fact,  and  ugly,  too,  my  dear,  as  you 
said,"  he  murmurs,  hoping  to  propitiate  his  wife  before  he 
leaves  the  kitchen. 

"  Yes ;  and  if  I  hudiit  said  it  you  wouldn't  have  thought 
it,"  she  replies,  with  her  mouth  full  of  bread.  "  You  never 
find  a  thought  yourself,  do  you,  in  that  big,  bushy  head  of 
yours  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  answers,  hesitatingly,  dishevelling 
his  tawny  locks  still  more  by  running  his  long  fingers  through 
them  ;  "  I  don't  think  I  do — much  : — still,"  he  continues,  in 
a  ruminating  tone,  witli  a  faint  gleam  of  malice  in  his  eye, 
"still,  how  did  I  come  to  marry  you,  Justine?  You  didn't 
a>k  me,  did  you?" 

For  the  first  time  for  many  years  Madame  Margot  looks  at 
her  husband  with  a  slight  feeling  of  admiration  ;  he  is  not  so 
terribly  lete,  after  all. 

"  A  precious  fool  I  must  have  been,  if  I  did,"  she  replies, 
burying  her  face  in  her  soup-bowl. 

"  Yc.-.  \> '>."  assents  her  husband,  "you  are  right,  my  love, 
as  you  always  are  ;  a  precious  fool  you  were — I  mean  we  were 
— no,  7  was — a  precious  fool,  \v>  !" 
B  3 


26  SOUCf. 

"  And  always  will  be/  (supplements  his  spouse,  clearing  the 
table  in  the  twinkling  of  art  eye,  and  setting  it  back  against 
the  wall  with  unnecessary  force. 

"  And  always  will  be  !"  ha  djj^iwls  out,  turning  towards  the 
front  room,  where  customers  are  already  tapping  on  the  little 
tables  to  announce  themselves  and  order  their  coffee  and  rolls. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"SUMTIMES   KISSES — AND    SUMTIMES    KIX."     * 

"  If  I  only  knew 
What  was  my  mother's  face — my  father  too  !" 

"  THEN  you  cannot  tell  me  how  old  you  are,  or  where  you 
came  from,  before  that  old  wretch  got  you  in  her  clutches  ?" 

'•  Oh,  yes,  madame,  I — I  came  from  Pierre, — Pierre  La- 
roque." 

"  A  cobbler?— in  the  Rue  Petit  St.  Denis?" 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Hein  !    But  he — he  is  not  married  !" 

"  No,  madame.     Saprelotte  !  he  is  afraid  of  women,(7te  is  !" 

"  And — who  is  your  mother,  child  ?" 

Souci  smiles  sadly.  "  Mother  !  I  never  had  any  mother." 
The  great  eyes  grow  mournful ;  she  taps  her  foot  impatiently. 

"  Truly  !  Then  this  old  Laroque  picked  you  up  under  the 
cabbages  in  his  garden,  one  fine  morning?" 

"  He  had  no  garden,  madame " 

"  Or  found  you  in  an  old  shoe  brought  to  him  to  repair, — 
or — it  may  be  that  you  are  telling  me  lies,"  Madame  Margot 
concludes  suspiciously,  drawing  her  heavy  brows  together. 
"  Do  you  ever  tell  lies?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  madame  ;  Pierre  used  to  say  that  I  could  lie  like 
tin  vrai  Gascon  /"  The  child  smiles  complacently  over  this 
accomplishment.  Justine  raises  her  hands  in  horror ;  Tonio, 
standing  by,  colors  furiously,  but  says  nothing. 


NOBODV'S  CHILD.  27 

A  wonderful  metamorphosis  has  taken  place  in  the  exterior 
of  the  two  children.  After  a  night  of  refreshing  sleep  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  a  wholesome  breakfast,  Madame  had  stripped 
off  their  wretched  rags  and  suaibbed  them  mercilessly,  scour- 
ing the  black  dye  from  Souci's  fair  locks,  and  the  grime  of 
weeks  from  their  pallid  faces.  Under  the  combined  influence 
of  hard  soap,  warm  water,  and  violent  friction,  they  shone  out 
in  an  astonishing  manner,  and  after  having  been  fitted  out 
completely,  in  comfortable -suits  purchased  by  this  good  soul  at 
that  fashionable  emporium  of  cast-off  clothing,  the  "  Temple," 
they  could  do  nothing  but  walk  around  each  other  admiringly, 
gasping  out  their  interjectional  delight  and  wonder. 

At  length  instinct  taught  Tonio  that  they  should  begin  their 
travels,  and  his  stiff,  but  earnest,  little  speech  of  thanks  was 
cut  short  by  Madame's  desire  to  learn  something  of  the  ante- 
cedents of  this  woful-eyed  child,  who  had  interested  her  so 
deeply. 

"  Has  no  one  ever  told  you  that  it  is  a  sin  to  tell  lies  ?"  she 
asks,  drawing  the  girl  nearer  to  her  and  speaking  solemnly. 

"  But  no,  madame ;  everybody  tells  lies, — everybody  but 
Tonio  ;  he  says  it  is  mean  to  lie.  Bah  !  he  is  bete  when  he  says 
so."  Justine  glances  admiringly  at  Tonio,  whose  head  is  bent, 
so  that  he  loses  that  gleam  of  encouragement.  Souci  contem- 
plates her  new  jacket  admiringly. 

"  Well,  my  child,  you  will  tell  me  the  truth  to-day,  will  you 
not  ?  Is  Pierre  Laroque — is  your  father  still  alive  ?" 

Souci  looks  confused.  "  Old  Pierre  is  alive,  oh,  yes,  but — 
I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  him.  Please,  dear  lady,  do  not  send 
me  back  to  old  Pierre — please — please  !"  In  an  instant  she 
is  on  her  knees,  with  her  head  buried  in  Madame's  black  silk 
apron,  trembling  with  excitement  and  dread. 

"  Get  up  !"  cries  Justine,  impatiently  ;  "  you  are  a  perfect 
little  firebrand  ;  I'm  not  going  to  send  you  anywhere, — but  I 
should  think  you  would  wish  to  return  to  your  father " 

"Yes,  madame,  if  I  knew  where  to  find  him,"  sighs  Souci. 

In  answer  to  the  good  woman's  puzzled  look,  Tonio  draws 
nearer,  and  in  a  few  words  tells  the  story  which  had  been  con- 
fided to  him  the  day  Souci  appeared  in  the  Rue  des  Ac:n -ins. 
That  she  had  been  picked  up  one  winter  night,  two  years  be- 
fore, from  the  door  stepby  old  Pierre,  half  frozen  and  wholly 
starved.  That  he  had  revived  her  by  pouring  gin  down  her 


28  SO  VCI. 

throat,  and  had  given  her  food  and  made  up  a  bed  for  her  in 
the  corner  of  his  own  little  bedroom.  That  he  was  very 
poor,  and  too  old  to  work  much,  so  that  when  the  second 
winter  had  passed,  he  had  resolved  before  another  came,  with 
its  fuel  and  lights,  its  rheumatism  and  high  prices  and  scant 
work,  to  rid  himself  of  a  burden  which  had  no  claim  upon 
him. 

(No  claim  !  and  he  had  rescued  this  child  from  the  merciful 
embrace  of  the  Death-angel !) 

Mere  Ursule's  proposals  had  come  at  an  opportune  moment, 
and  the  old  cobbler  had,  not  without  a  struggle,  consigned  his 
only  bit  of  sunshine  to  her  guardianship. 

"  Do  you  remember  nothing  before  the  night  Laroque  found 
you  ?  Let  me  see  ;  you  must  have  been  at  least  seven  years 
old  then,"  Madame,  somewhat  softened  by  these  revelations, 
demands  of  Souci. 

"  Yes,  madame  ;  I  remember  wandering  about  in  the  streets 
all  day — every  day, — and  sleeping  in  them  too.  Sometimes 
good  people  would  take  me  in,  and  give  me  a  nice  supper,  and 
let  me  sleep  in  the  kitchen.  Once  I  was  kept  for  three  whole 
days  and  nights  in  a  shop  to  run  errands  and  mind  the  door ; 
but  they  found  out  that  I  had  come  from  '  Les  Trouves,'  and 
belonged  to  nobody,  so  they  sent  me  away.  Dame!  I  was 
sorry  to  go ;  they  fed  me  well  there." 

"  How  came  you  to  leave  the  Asylum,  child  ?" 

"  I — I  ran  away,  madame." 

"  How  long  had  you  been  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  always  ;  I  don't  remember." 

"  Were  they  not  kind  to  you  there  ?" 

"  Sometimes,"  the  child  answers,  in  a  low  voice*:  "  the 
matron  was  kind,  and  some  of  the  nurses, — but,  oh  !  the  boys 
were  all  bad  and  cruel  to  me,  and  some  of  the  girls  too.  I 
would  rather  die  than  go  to  the  '  Trouves,'  madame,"  she  con- 
cludes apprehensively. 

"  And  how  long  were  you  living  in  the  streets,  poor  child  ?" 

"  A  long,  long  time, — I  can't  say  how  many  weeks, — but  when 
I  ran  away  the  flowers  were  blooming  and  the  trees  covered 
with  green  leaves  and  the  sun  was  warm  and  bright,  and  when 
old  Pierre  found  me  I  was  half  buried  in  snow,  he  said." 

There  is  silence  for  a  moment ;  Madame's  face  has  grown 
wonderfully  softened  and  subdued. 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  29 

"  What  shall  you  do  with  this  little  girl  ?"  she  asks  Tonio, 
gravely.  "  She  is  not  strong,  and,  you  see,  has  broken  down 
already  ;  yesterday " 

"  I  know,  madanie,"  sighs  the  boy. 

"  But,  sacristi!  I  am  well  to-day  !"  bursts  forth  vehemently 
from  Souci's  lips.  "  I  was  never  ill  in  my  life.  I  have  my 
tambourine — and — and  Tonio  !  We  shall  do  very  well ;  and 
thank  you  kindly  for  the  nice  clothes  and  the  good  breakfast ; 
and — adieu  !  Come,  Tonio, — there  is  some  one  in  the  salon, 
madame, — come,  we  must  be  off !"  She  has  tied  on  her  new 
hood,  and,  leaping  on  a  chair,  has  taken  down  her  tambourine 
before  Justine  has  recovered  breath  for  a  fresh  inquiry. 

Rat-tat-tat !  rat-tat-tat !  on  the  counter  outside  and  the 
shuffling  of  many  feet  recall  to  Madame's  mind  that  the  eleven- 
o'clock  dejeuner  d  la  fourchette  is  demanded  imperatively,  and 
that  stupid  Rosine  has  not  yet  returned  from  the  market. 
Seizing  the  soup-ladle,  she  hastily  fills  half  a  dozen  tiny  tureens, 
and  placing  them  on  a  tray,  hands  it  to  her  husband,  whose 
paper-capped  head  and  mildly-expostulatory  face  appear  at 
that  moment  at  the  door.  Checking  his  unuttered  reproaches 
by  an  energetic  "  Tiens  !  don't  waste  time  talking ;  I  forgot 
them ;  voila  tout !"  she  fills  her  apron  with  the  long,  thin 
loaves  of  bread  and  carries  them  in  herself  as  a  sop  to  Cerberus. 

Swiftly  returning,  she  stops  to  give  Tonio  a  parting  admoni- 
tion :  "  Don't  keep  that  child  in  the  streets  all  night ;  you  can 
make  enough  out  of  the  silly  gawks  who  stand  and  stare  at 
you  to  pay  for  a  couple  of  clean  beds  every  night.  Mind  what 
I  say  to  you,  she's  not  strong  enough  for  this  sort  of  work." 
And,  choking  down  something  akin  to  a  sob,  the  good  woman 
hastily  kisses  Souci  on  both  cheeks  and  turns  away  with  a 
curious  mist  veiling  the  bright  eyes. 

Tonio  looks  wistfully  towards  her  as  she  stoops  busily  over 
the  oven ;  then,  with  a  sigh,  he  takes  Souci's  hand,  and  they 
]i:i.->  out  through  the  little  restaurant  into  the  street. 

Many  years  ago,  in   the  first  happy  twelvemonth  of  her 

wedded   life,  before  the  silver  leaves  in  her  orange-blossom 

wn-ath  had  grown  tarnished,  when  her  home  and  her  husband 

were  still  new  and  pleasing  in  her  sight,  there  had  been  laid 

on  Justine  Margot'fl  bosom   a   tiny  infant  daughter.      A  pale 

little  snow-drop  it  was. — a  sprite-like  babe,  whose  great  dark 

held  a  mournful  look  in  them  which  they  had  brought 

3* 


30  SOUCL 

from  the  spirit-world.  For  in  this  world  it  had  not  lingered 
long  enough  to  grow  sad  about  anything,  and  after  it  was  laid 
under  its  daisy  mound  Justine  know  that  something  had  gone 
out  of  her  life  forever.  She  did  not  grieve  much  outwardly, 
but  her  voice  took  a  sharper  ring,  and  her  eyes  grew  hard  and 
bright,  and  when  other  babes  came  in  due  course  they  were 
watchfully  tended  and  scrupulously  cared  for,  but  there  were 
no  wild  and  frantic  kisses,  no  idiotic  mumblings  and  ecstatic 
caressings,  lavished  upon  them.  Perhaps  it  was  because  they 
were  all  boys, — great,  strong,  roystering  babies, — and  so  had 
differed  from  the  fragile  little  snow-drop  which  had  wilted  and 
faded  so  soon ;  perhaps  it  was  because  the  mother  had  made 
her  idol,  and  even  after  it  had  been  broken  no  other  should 
fill  its  place. 

All  that  day,  after  Tonio  and  Souci  have  departed,  Madame 
Margot's  patrons  find  her  strangely  absent  and  preoccupied. 
She  waits  upon  them  with  mechanical  assiduity,  it  is  true,  but 
there  are  several  extraordinary  combinations  served  to  them. 
One  bon-vivarU,  a  jolly  barber  from  the  opposite  corner,  is 
taken  aback  at  having  a  dish  of  tripe  served  with  his  gateau 
d  la  Madeleine  as  dessert ;  another  is  amused  to  find  his  coffee- 
cup  full  of  cognac,  and  his  "  petite  cuilleree"  of  coffee  in  a 
liqueur-glass ;  while  a  miserly  old  chap,  who  was  reputed  rich, 
and  never  ordered  more  than  one  course  for  breakfast  or  dinner, 
— always  carefully  stowing  away  the  remaining  bits  of  sugar 
in  his  vest-pocket, — is  delighted  at  the  hors-d'oeuvre  and 
entree  for  which  he  is  not  charged  a  centime.  The  unwonted 
gentleness  of  speech  and  manner  of  their  usually  sharp-tongued 
hostess  gives  rise  to  various  conjectures.  "  Jules  has  got  the 
whip-hand  of  her  at  last,"  whispers  one  man  to  his  neighbor. 
"  Bah  !  he  don't  look  like  it,"  is  the  response,  accompanied  by 
a  shrug  and  a  knowing  wink  in  the  direction  of  the  liqueur- 
stand. 

Jules  watches  his  wife  furtively  and  draws  his  own  conclu- 
sions. "  Those  brats  have  stolen  her  Sunday  ear-rings,  I'll  lay 
a  wager !  Well,  I  told  her  so."  In  his  soul  he  wishes  she 
had  a  pair  of  ear-rings  stolen  every  day  in  the  week,  if  this 
magic  softness  of  voice  and  manner  is  the  result  of  her  loss. 

And  all  the  while  she  is  saying  to  herself,  reproachfully, 
"  Why  did  I  let  that  child  go, — that  child  who  looked  at  me 
with  Fifine's  eyes  ?  Oh,  Fifiue,  my  little  one,  my  baby,  come 


XOBODF'S   CHILD.  31 

back  to  me  !"  as  she  chokes  down  a  sob,  which  may  find  vent 
only  in  the  silence  and  the  darkness  of  the  uight,  whilst 
Jules  snores  placidly  beside  her. 


CHAPTER  VL 

FORTUNE  VERSUS  SUPPER. 

"And  she  had  a  light  and  brilliant  voice  which  rang  like  silver,  and 
it  was  pure  as  the  gold  which  runs  from  the  furnace,  and  she  sang  well 
songs  which  were  not  well,  and  her  windpipe  gave  shape  and  form  to 
things  which  were  flat." — MEISTER  KARL. 

Six  o'clock  of  an  April  afternoon.  The  Champs  Elysees 
thinning  rapidly  of  the  loiterers  who  have  lounged  and  whis- 
pered and  ogled  each  other  under  the  budding  chestnuts,  in 
the  violet-scented  air,  since  noon.  An  unbroken  line  of  lamp- 
lit  equipages  trails  itself — a  glittering,  undulating  serpent — 
from  the  Bois  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  whilst  in  the 
chiaro-oscuro,  lights  are  beginning  to  gleam,  here  and  there, 
like  fireflies  among  the  trees. 

About  the  entrance  of  a  popular  restaurant  is  gathered  a 
group  of  those  good-natured  flaneurs  and  their  vivacious 
womankind,  who  delight  in  sipping  their  limonade-gazeuse  and 
their  vanilla-ice  in  the  open  air,  where  they  can  see  and  be 
seen,  hear  and  be  heard, — in  short,  where  they  may  have  as 
many  senses  gratified  at  once,  as  possible. 

At  this  moment  the  incessant  chatter,  which  irresistibly  re- 
minds one  of  the  monkey-cage  at  the  "  Zoo,"  has  been  charmed 
into  that  subdued  murmur,  interspersed  with  occasional  pious 
ejaculations,  which,  with  the  French,  is  the  nearest  approach 
to  silence.  The  cigarette  of  Monsieur  has  gone  out  between 
his  fingers ;  the  spoon  of  Madame  is  arrested  in  mid-air ;  the 
ice  a  la  vu nil tr.  has  melted,  and,  overflowing  its  glass,  runs  in 
a  tiny  rivulet  across  the  marble  table  and  drips  slowly  over  the 
glossy  flounces  of  Madame's  best  black  <jros-<jrnin. 

The  centre  of  a  circle  composed  chiefly  of  white-capped 
bonnes,  blue-bloused  workmen,  and  the  ubiquitous  gamin, 


32  SOUCI. 

stands,  lightly  poised  upon  her  slender  feet  as  an  oriole  upon 
a  branch,  a  little  figure  clad  in  striped  scarlet  petticoat,  tight- 
fitting  black  bodice,  and  with  a  yellow  cotton  handkerchief 
knotted  coquettishly  about  her  head. 

- 
"  Jet£  sur  cette  boule, 

,Laid,  ch6tif,  souffrant, 
Kt<niff&  dans  lafoule, 
Faute  d'etre  assez  grand, 

u  Une  plainte  touchante 

De  ma  Louche  sortit.  a 

Le  bon  Dieu  me  dit,  '  Chante, 
Chante,  pauvre  petit  P  " 

She  sings,  and  there  is  an  animation — un  elan — in  her  every 
gesture,  her  every  glance,  which  draw  forth  murmurs  of  rap- 
turous applause.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  couplet,  she 
abandons  the  words  which  bind  her  down  to  a  certain  air,  and, 
in  a  voice  of  remarkable  strength  and  purity,  carols  forth  such 
free,  fresh  gushes  of  melody  as  might  burst  from  the  throats 
of  feathered  songsters  under  the  June  sunshine.  Clear  trills, 
wild  leaps  from  octave  to  octave,  and  those  gurgling  undula- 
tions of  swee't  sound  which  rise  and  fall  upon  the  air  as 
harmoniously  as  waves  upon  the  sea,  succeed  each  other  in 
entrancing  variation.  Now  her  notes  grow  plaintive  as  the 
nightingale's  love-song  to  the  night,  now  pure,  aerial,  uprising 
as  the  lark's  glad  matin  hymn,  then  rippling  back  into  tender 
cadences,  which  die  away  softly  into  the  echo  of  a  sigh. 

An  eloquent  silence  ensues :  even  the  bakers'  boys,  and  the 
bonnes  with  their  beribboned  charges,  stand  mute  in  open- 
mouthed  wonder  and  delight.  With  a  triumphant  smile, 
Souci,  raising  above  her  head  her  tambourine,  shakes  out 
of  it  a  lively  concatenation  of  sound  which  breaks  the  spell  and 
restores  the  power  of  speech  to  her  auditors. 

"Dieu!  que  cest  beau!  Ah,  but  it  is  admirably  well 
done !  The  child  has  the  throat  of  a  goldfinch  !  Listen, 
then,  my  little  one,  she  recommences !"  But  Souci  has  no 
intention  of  exerting  herself  further  for  the  entertainment  of 
the  public  to-night.  She  is  tired  and  very  hungry,  and  as 
she  yields  her  tambourine  to  Tonio  she  whispers,  in  a  low, 
eager  voice,  with  a  somewhat  imperative  ring  in  it, — 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  33 

"  Be  quick  ;  take  what  you  can  get,  but  come  back  in  ten 
minutes  !"  Then  she  stands  waiting,  thrilling  and  vibrating 
yet  with  her  own  music ;  steeped  to  the  eyes  in  melody  of 
her  own  creation  ;  panting  like  a  little  bird  intoxicated  with  its 
own  ecstatic  roulades. 

The  applause  grows  fainter, —  the  crowd  is  dispersing.  Ma- 
dame Bourgeoise  perceives  and  loudly  deplores  the  abimement 
of  her  Sunday  toilette  ;  Monsieur,  under  cover  of  his  wife's 
excitement,  dashes  a  franc-piece  into  the  tambourine,  leering 
impudently  at  Souci,  whose  eyes  follow  Tonio  impatiently. 

Only  a  few  short  weeks  ago — ill  fed,  half  clothed,  and  cowed 
by  ceaseless  threats — this  child  had  gone  over  and  over  again 
her  limited  repertoire  of  song  in  the  half-stifled  manner  in 
which  a  bird  might  sing,  with  a  cord  knotted  about  its  tender 
throat.  But  now  free — from  harsh  language,  from  blows, 
from  cruel  sights  and  torturing  fear — the  joy  in  her  heart 
overflows, — bubbles  up  over  the  brim  of  an  exquisitely-sensitive 
organization,  and  gushes  forth  naturally  and  irrepressibly  into 
this  almost  miraculous  expression.  Already  is  she  well  known 
and  popular ;  already  she  reigns  by  virtue  of  her  wonderful 
voice  a  little  queen  among  the  street-singers  of  Paris  ;  already 
does  she  assume  a  certain  arbitrariness  towards  her  most 
loving  slave,  her  most  earnest  admirer,  Tonio.  Abject  devotion 
always  arouses  the  slumbering  tyrant  in  woman's  nature. 

"  Why  does  he  not  come?"  she  mutters,  tapping  her  foot 
pettishly.  "  He  has  enough,  and  yet  he  must  go  into  that 
cafe  !  Why  can  he  not  be  content?"  And  her  head  droops 
weaiily. 

Presently  his  voice  arouses  her.  "  Souci,"  he  cries,  ex- 
citedly, "  come  ;  you  are  to  go  in  there,  where  I  have  been  ! 
Come  ;  they  want  you."  And  he  seizes  her  hand  to  draw  her 
forward. 

"Stop!"  she  cries,  coldly.  "Who  wants  me?  Why  am 
I  to  go  in  there  ?'' 

"  Two  grand  gentlemen  ;  they  wish  to  speak  with  you. 
They  have  asked  me  many  questions ;  perhaps — who  knows? — 
they  may  give  you  a  lot  of  money  if  you  sing  for  them  -in 
there.  Come!"  breathlessly  explains  the  lad. 

"Pah!  is  that  all?"  hursts  forth  Souci,  disdainfully. 
"Then  I  tell  you  I  sha'n't  go!  Dame!  I'm  tired  to  death, 
and  I  want  my  supper.  We've  got  enough  money  for  that, 
B* 


34  SOUCI. 

anyhow.  Go  back  to  your  grand  gentlemen,  if  you  like." 
And,  turning  swiftly,  the  girl  darts  down  a  side  street,  unheed- 
ing Tonio's  cry  of  remonstrance,  and  be  follows  her. 

******* 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  glance  through  the  window,  Victor, 
and  tell  me  whether  that  lad  has  captured  his  nightingale  and 
is  bringing  her  to  us  in  triumph."  The  speaker — a  tall, 
slender  man,  past  his  first  youth,  who  in  the  combined  neat- 
ness and  artistic  negligence  of  his  attire,  as  well  as  in  physi- 
ognomy and  bearing,  is  eminently  anti-Gallic — leans  forward 
somewhat  anxiously  to  catch  his  companion's  reply. 

His  friend,  differing  in  no  wise  from  the  accepted  forme 
on  which  young  France  triumphantly  models  itself,  tips  his 
chair  back  to  an  angle  which  admits  of  one  eye  being  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  retreating  figures  of  Tonio  and  his  nightin- 
gale as  they  turn  the  corner.  Recovering  his  equilibrium, 
he  says,  laughingly,  "  At  the  imminent  risk  of  dislocating 
my  neck,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  been  vouchsafed  the  last 
flutter  of  the  songstress's  petticoat  as  she  disappeared  from 
view.  Believe  me,"  he  adds,  as  an  expression  of  disappoint- 
ment flits  over  the  mobile  features  opposite  to  him, — "  believe 
me,  the  little  wretches  are  entirely  unworthy  of  your  notice, 
Raoul,  and  the  voice  which  does  not  sound  amiss  in  the  open 
air,  would  set  your  teeth  on  edge  in  a  salon." 

"  Perhaps,"  murmurs  his  companion,  laconically,  shrugging 
his  shoulders. 

"  Besides,"  continues  the  young  Vicomte  de  Verignon,  while 
his  eyes  travel  slowly  down  the  menu  which  an  assiduous 
waiter  has  proffered  unsuccessfully  to  his  abstracted  v>'s-d-vi's, — 
"  besides,  this  bird  is  a  mere  fledgling ;  it  will  be  years  before 
one  can  tell  whether  she  can  do  more  than  chirp  prettily, — I 
do  not  see  salmon-trout  here,  waiter  ! — and,  du  reste,  were  there 
not  some  harsh  high  notes  ?" 

"  You  are  right,  Victor,  perfectly  right,  and  I  was  a  fool, 
as  I  always  am  when  a  voice  touches  my  heart,"  assents  Raoul, 
with  a  sigh  of  genuine  regret  that  in  this  instance  he  could 
not  continue  to  be  a  fool.  "  There  was  certainly  sharpness — 
an  aigreur  which  promises  to  break  the  high  notes  some  day ; 
but,  ah,  what  sweetness,  what  compass,  what  liquid  modula- 
tions in  the  lower  tones  !  I  have  never  heard  their  equal ! 
Ah  !  and  a  thoroughly  untutored  voice,  too  !  What  a  superb 


XOBODF'S   CHILD.  35 

instrument  to  cultivate  !"  Another  deeper  sigh  brings  a  smile 
to  the  younger  man's  face,  followed  by  a  comic  frown  of  annoy- 
ance. 

"  Alas,  mon  cher,  what  perverse  fate  brought  these  little 
vagabonds  across  our  path  to  destroy  the  harmony  of  our  din- 
ner and — your  digestion?  I  fancied  your  hands  were  pretty 
full  at  present  with  the  German  tenor  and  that  charming 
didblcsse,  Catalina." 

Raoul  Delacroix  pushes  his  rather  long  hair  back  impa- 
tiently from  a  broad  white  brow,  exclaiming,  "  You  have  cer- 
tainly struck  a  discordant  note  now,  Victor!  I  have  tried  to 
forget  during  the  last  half-hour  that  virago  with  the  seraph's 
voice,  and  that  pig-headed,  flute-throated  Teuton, — ah,  mon 
Dicii.ftn  ai  nne  indigestion, — and  you  will  not  let  me  !" 

"  They  arc  trying,"  assents  his  friend,  conmiiseratingly ; 
"  but  what  would  you  have?  Genius  would  not  be  recog- 
nized if  it  were  not  captious  and  capricious,  eccentric  and 
disagreeable ;  Catalina  has  had  a  grand  succeg,  you  know, — 
i7  faut  payer  le  bonheur  .'"  And  he  bends  tenderly  over  his 
Ostond  oysters. 

"  Little  you  know  about  it !"  smiles  the  other,  derisively. 
'•What  can'you  know  of  the  discouragements  of  a  life  like 
mine?  Ah,  mon  «»»',"  he  continues,  moodily,  "when  I  am 
brought  in  contact  with  the  fierce  jealousies,  the  puerile  pique, 
the  complex  passions  with  which  human  nature  stultifies  and 
degrades  art,  I  feel  like  a  man  chain-bound,  forced  to  look  on 
while  a  petulant  child  chips  and  defaces  with  his  toy  hammer 
one  of  the  glorious  old  Greek  models, — the  Apollo  or  the 
Antinous !  Peste!  lam  thinking  seriously  of  throwing  up 
my  appointment  and  going  off  to  some  benighted  land  whore 
rival  prime-donne  and  salary-bribes  are  unknown."  He  brings 
his  slender  brown  palm  down  upon  the  table  with  an  emphasis 
which  causes  the  glasses  to  ring. 

The  Vicomte  de  Verignon  imperturbably  raises  his  Ghablis 
to  his  lips,  sips  a  moment,  and  replies,  "  That  would  never 
do,  mon  cher  ;  all  Paris  would  be  up  in  arms  were  the  favorite 
(tirecleur  of  the  Qmucrtatoirt  to  resign  his  post.  True,  it  is 
no  sinecure  ;  I  am  not  so  ignorant  as  you  suppose  of  the  other 
side  of  the  drop-curtain  ;  but  you  are  too  sen-hive,  Raoul. 
Why  do  you  not  take  things  philosophically.  :is  I  do?" — at 
this  instant  he  is  contemplating  rather  skeptically  the  cob- 


3G  SODCL 

webbed  bottle  in  its  basket  cradle, — "  it  saves  so  much  wear 
and  tear  to  the  constitution,"  he  concludes,  languidly  caress- 
ing his  blonde  moustache  with  a  hand  white  and  soignee  as  a 
woman's. 

"  It  will  nevertheless  come  to  pass,"  abstractedly  pursues 
the  other,  as  he  waves  aside  waiter,  oysters,  and  Chablis,  all 
together.  "  One  of  these  days  you  will  look  around  for  llaoul 
Delacroix  and — his  place  shall  know  him  no  more." 

"  Keally,  my  friend,  your  plaint  waxes  pathetic,"  returns 
Victor,  with  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  his  blue  eyes.  "  Oh 
for  the  wings  of  a  dove  !  and  that  sort  of  thing, — eh  ?  What 
has  ruffled  your  plumage  to  such  an  extent?  Is  Raboulet 
sulky  again,  or  has  la  Signora  committed  suicide  with  her 
scissors  ?" 

"  Would  to  Heaven  she  had !"  exclaims  Kaoul,  relaxing 
into  a  grim  smile.  "  I  am  thoroughly  disheartened,  Victor," 
he  resumes,  sadly.  "  The  pettinesses  which  soil  the  skirts 
of  art  pain  and  disgust  me,  as  would  the  mire  clinging  to 
a  queen's  robes  when  she  is  being  dragged  to  execution. 
Queens  should  live  royally  and  keep  their  ermine  fleckless, 
and  die  whilst  the  halo  of  their  sovereignty  is  yet  undimmed. 
A  royal  roturiere  is  loathsome  in  my  sight !  I  tell  you,  I 
would  leave  Paris  to-day.  I  am  worn  out,  body  and  soul !" 
He  leans  back  in  his  chair  with  a  weary  sigh.  Victor,  bending 
all  his  energies  upon  the  dissection  of  a  vol-au-vent,  glances 
towards  him  compassionately. 

"  In  the  mean  time  prepare  for  thy  journey,  friend."  he 
says,  cheerily.  "  Eat  something  ;  fill  thy  glass  ;  it  appears  to 
me  you  are  becoming  morbid ;  nothing  better  for  that  com- 
plaint than  champagne.  Waiter,  a  wine-card  !"  As  he  picks 
out  the  truffles  to  pile  them  on  his  friend's  plate,  Victor's 
laughing  face  grows  serious.  "  You  are  suffering  from  a 
common  affliction,  llaoul,"  he  says,  "only  yovr  mistress  is  a 
little  more  capricious  and  exacting  than  ordinarily  is  the  case. 
You  have  bowed  your  head  before  art  in  an  abject  idolatry  ; 
you  have  given  up  to  her  your  youth,  your  fortune,  your  every 
aspiration  of  ambition  ;  you  have  been  loyal  and  true  to  her 
from  the  first,  forsaking  all  others ;  and  she  has  served  you  as 
such  wenches  have  invariably  served  their  lovers,  from  the 
days  of  Cleopatra  down.  She  has  entranced  you,  mocked 
you,  eluded  you,  nion  Dieu  !  betrayed  you 


NOBODY'S   CHILD.  37 

"  And  lost  me  a  world  of  nobler  aims  and  more  satisfying 
pursuits,"  interrupts  llumil,  draining  at  a  draught  a  foaming 
goblet  of  bis  friend's  prescription.  "  Ah,  I  am  sick  of  her !" 

"  Yet.  the  voice  of  the  siren  has  a  charm  for  you  still," 
laughs  Victor,  pointing  over  his  shoulder  in  the  direction 
•whence  he  had  watched  Souci's  retreat.  "  Notwithstanding 
the  ear-piercing  notes,  you  were  keen  as  a  hawk  after  her, 
mon  ami!'' 

"  That  is  just  the  thing,"  returns  Delacroix,  smiling  in  spite 
of  himself;  "  it  was  simply  the  faultiness  of  her  execution 
which  tempted  me.  Ignorant  as  a  thrush  of  her  gift,  the 
child  is  adorable ;  taught  the  money-value  of  it,  she  becomes 
detestable." 

"  Then  why  not  leave  her  this  blissful  ignorance,  and  save 
yourself  the  pain  of  watching  the  transformation  ?"  his  friend 
asks,  curiously. 

"  Because  it  is  a  crime  to  murder  such  a  gift  as  hers ;  be- 
cause, let  the  consequences  be  what  they  may,  that  voice  will 
no  more  be  silenced  than — one  of  those  stars  will  be  blotted 
out  of  heaven  because  Galileo  did  not  find  it  there  !  One  day, 
that  voice  will  raise  itself — and  her — out  of  the  gutter,  mark 
me, — if — she,  lives.'' 

u  Which  is  extremely  improbable,"  observes  Victor,  replen- 
ishing his  companion's  glass.  "  Such  a  wan,  sad  little  face  as  it 
was  when  she  was  not  singing  !  She  looked  bright  and  wicked 
enough  over  '  Lisette,'  did  she  not?" 

"  Yes ;  but,  as  you  say,  very  fragile.  One  can  see  what  she 
has  suffered,  in  those  great,  melancholy  eyes, — the  only  good 
feature  she  possessed,  by  the  way." 

"True;  still,  they  were  remarkable  enough  to  redeem  a 
plain  face.  '  />'•>•  yens,  noirs  vont  an  purgatoire,  "  hums  Victor, 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

"  Jiliu-k  "/'  .s .'"  exclaims  the  other.  "  What  are  you  talking 
about  ?  Her  eyes  were  the  most  wonderful  gray  I  ever  saw: 
melting,  dreamy,  woe-begone ;  flashing  and  fiery  by  turns ; 
variable  as  her  capriccio  voice " 

"  And  her  temper,"  supplements  his  friend. 

1'crhaps.  Victor,  who  taught  that  child  of  the  pave  the 
language  of  forest  birds?  Where  did  she  learn  to  trill  and 
gurgle  like  a  sky-lark  ?" 

••  The  same  singing-master  teaches  both,  I  imagine,"  smiles 
4 


38  SOUCI. 

Victor.  "  It  is  a  pity  such  a  fine  piece  of  mechanism  should 
have  been  placed  in  such  a  mean  case !" 

"  But,  mon  ami,  this  may  be  but  the  chrysalis,  from  which 
shall  emerge  something  gloriously  beautiful,  some  day.  Rest 
assured,  Victor,  this  child,  grovelling  now  amid  the  sewers  of 
Paris,  shall  be  heard,  when  the  time  comes,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land." 

"  So  be  it,"  acquiesces  the  young  Vicomte,  a  little  impa- 
tiently, rising  to  light  his  cigarette,  unable  to  appreciate  his 
companion's  enthusiasm  in  regard  to  this  waif.  "  Where 
bound,  Raoul  ?  To  the  theatre — or — the  Rue  de  Helder  for 
the  concert?" 

"  Neither :  I  am  out  of  tune  to-night  for  society.  I  shall 
walk — out  beyond  the  barrieres,  somewhere — and  exorcise  the 
demon  which  possesses  me  !  Good-night !" 

"  Beaux  reves,  cher  ami!  lam  booked  for  the  Embassy 
to-night, — d  domain!"  and  they  separate ;  De  Verignon  spring- 
ing into  his  cab,  and  Raoul  striding  off  in  the  direction  of  the 

Barriere  de  1'Etoile. 

******* 

As  a  clock  of  curious  workmanship  strikes  out  the  hour  of 
midnight  from  the  chimney-piece  of  an  artistically-furnished 
apartment  in  the  Rue  d'Antin,  Monsieur  Delacroix  draws  back 
the  velvet  portiere  and  enters.  He  has  probably  succeeded  in 
casting  out  the  devil  of  discontent  which  had  disturbed  him, 
for  his  face  has  recovered  its  inscrutable  calm  and  the  gentle 
gravity  of  its  habitual  expression. 

"  Strange !"  he  murmurs  to  himself,  with  a  faint  sigh,  as  he 
lights  a  cheroot  and  ensconces  himself,  a  little  wearily,  in  a 
luxurious  arm-chair, — "  strange,  that  for  forty  years  my  life 
has  satisfied  me,  I  have  desired  nothing  outside  of  it,  and 
now,  all  at  once,  this  extraordinary  dissatisfaction  seizes  me  ! 
At  the  age  when  most  men  are  sowing  their  wild  oats,  I  was 
studying,  and  perfectly  happy  in  my  favorite  pursuits.  When 
other  men  of  my  years  were  falling  in  love  and  marrying,  I  had 
neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  anything  but  music  and  art !  And 
now  ?"  He  glances  around  the  spacious  room,  whose  corners 
the  solitary  wax  candle  leaves  in  black  shadow,  and  shivers 
slightly.  "  Now,  I  am — alone  and — desolate  !"  He  smokes 
on  in  deep  thought  for  a  time,  and  then,  rising,  he  takes  up  the 
candle,  and,  approaching  a  Venetian  mirror  set  in  antique 


NOBODIES   CHILD.  39 

frame,  he  stands  contemplating  coldly,  critically,  his  rugged 
features,  his  deep-set,  clear,  gray  eyes,  his  dark  hair  and  mous- 
tache, already  touched  by  time. 

"  Is  it  too  late  ?"  he  asks  himself.  "  Old,  worn,  uncouth, 
could  any  one  care  for  me  now  ?  Alas,  I  have  filled  my  heart 
with  a  vain  shadow,  and  it  cries  out  for  the  substance,  now 
when  it  is  too  late !  Victor  is  right.  A  man  cannot  live  by 
art  alone,  without  stretching  out  empty  arms,  one  day  ;  and  that 
day  has  come  to  me."  Turning  away,  a  silvery  beam  of  moon- 
light stealing  between  the  curtains  of  the  window  catches  his 
eye.  Drawing  back  the  velvet  and  lace,  he  pushes  gently 
forward  into  the  soft  and  mellow  radiance  a  pedestal  of  jasper, 
on  which  stands  an  exquisite  copy  of  the  Castellani  "  Artemis." 
"  At  least  I  have  thee,  thou  '  large-browed  huntress,'  cold  as 
thou  art  in  thy  faultless  beauty,  thy  '  splendid  nullity' !" 
Raoul  mutters,  and,  gazing  rapt  in  admiration  at  its  large  and 
noble  features,  the  grand  outlines  and  proud  poise  of  the  head, 
there  dawns  dimly  upon  his  consciousness  the  recollection  of 
an  unformed  little  face,  seen  for  the  first  time  that  day.  "  How 
admirably  those  great,  shadowy  eyes,  with  their  impenetrable 
depths,  would  suit  this  face  !"  he  thinks.-  "  Poor  little  child  ! 
I  shall  see  her  to-morrow,  and  save  her  if  I  can.  Perhaps  she 
might  come  to  care  for  me  in  time — and  she  is  flesh  and  blood 
— can  speak  and  break  this  drear  silence  about  me ;  and  thou, 
Artemis,  art  only  the  soul  of  beauty,  petrified !" 


40  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  NIGHT   IN   THE   MARKET-PLACE. 

"Good-night,  good  sleep,  good  rest  from  sorrow, 
To  these  that  shall  not  know  good-inorrow ; 
Ye  gods,  be  gentle  to  all  these  !" 

"  Six,  eight,  ten,  and  fifty  centimes,  one  franc ;  and  two 
franc-pieces, — three  and  four  are  seven  !  Seven  francs,  Souci ; 
we  are  rich !  See,  child,  you  have  done  bravely  to-day  !  We 
shall  have  something  extra  for  supper.  I  say,  how  would  you 
like  to  eat  up  all  of  these  seven  francs ;  go  to  a  good  place  and 
order  everything,  you  know,  just  to  see  how  it  feels  to  have 
enough  ?" 

"  Roast  onions  and — pigs'  feet,"  suggests  Souci,  with  gleam- 
ing eyes.  "  But  then,"  her  face  clouding,  "  if  we  go  on  spend- 
ing like  that  we  shall  never  get  away  from  Paris.  You  said 
we  would  never  be  safe  here :  that  Mere  Ursule  or  Dindon 
might  meet  us  any  time  in  the  streets.  Diantre!  they  shall 
never  catch  me  again,  I  promise  you.  Oh,  Tonio,  let  us  get 
only  bread  and  cheese,  as  always,  and — and  an  onion — and 
save  the  money !" 

"  Very  well,"  sighs  the  lad,  resignedly. 

Souci's  heart  is  touched. 

"  You  shall  get  a  round  of  sausage  for  yourself,  Tonio ; 
I  don't  need  it.  You're  a  boy,  you  know,  and,"  answering 
his  glance  of  inquiry,  "  Mere  Ursule  always  said  boys  ate 
double." 

Tonio  laughs,  and,  restoring  to  his  pocket  the  rag  in  which 
their  slender  fortunes  are  knotted  up,  they  start  off  to  purchase 
their  evening  meal  and  seek  quarters  for  the  night ;  for,  true 
to  his  promise,  Souci  had  not  yet  been  allowed  to  pass  a  single 
night  in  the  street. 

Having  procured  their  supper, — a  round  of  sausage,  a  lump 
of  black  bread,  and  one  stale  tart,  seduced  from  a  pastry-cook 


XOBODV'S  CHILD.  41 

by  Souci's  covetous  eyes, — they  stow  it  carefully  in  the  lining 
of  Tonio's  cap  and  trudge  wearily  along,  halting  at  last  before 
the  door  of  the  "  Yellow  Tiger." 

The  landlady  of  this  unsavory  hostelry  at  first  appears  in- 
clined to  close  the  door  in  the  faces  of  the  little  wayfarers. 
Souci  watches  her  warily ;  for  this  ancient  dame,  with  her 
gruff  voice,  bearded  chin,  and  solitary  front  tooth,  standing 
sentinel-wise  against  the  dark  cavern  of  her  capacious  mouth, 
recalls  forcibly  to  the  child's  imagination  a  pet  character  of 
fiction  with  which  Tonio  is  wont  to  harrow  up  her  soul  in 
delightful  narrative, — a  certain  ogress  of  cannibalistic  tend- 
encies who  supped  off  little  children  and  preferred  girls. 
"  Come,"  she  whispers,  tugging  at  the  boy's  coat-sleeve,  "  I 
don't  want  to  stop  here !"  But  her  voice  sounds  weak  and 
quavering  from  fatigue,  and  Tonio  stands  firm.  Diplomatic- 
ally displaying  his  little  hoard,  he  demands  blandly, — 

"  How  much,  granny,  for  a  couple  of  beds  ?  We  can  pay, 
you  see."  And  he  jingles  the  coin  in  his  hand. 

At  this  welcome  sound  the  crone  opens  the  door  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  wider.  Her  customers  generally  kept  chalk  scores, 
and  rarely  "  settled"  without  acrimony. 

"  Can't  you  read  ?"  she  asks,  pointing  a  grimy  forefinger 
in  the  direction  of  the  window  lighted  by  a  couple  of  tallow 
dips,  where  propped  against  a  greenish  glass  bottle  stands  a 
dirty  card  on  which  is  inscribed  in  large  letters, — 

"SINGLE  BEDS,  3  SOUS  PER  NIGHT, 
DOUBLE  DITTO,  25  CENTIMES." 

Tonio  shakes  his  head  ruefully.  To  his  illiterate  eyes  the 
information  might  as  well  have  been  written  in  Sanscrit.  "  We 
can't  stand  here  all  night !"  he  exclaims,  impatiently.  "  Can 
you  lodge  us,  or  not  ?  what's  the  figure  ?" 

The  landlady  unhesitatingly  doubles  her  usual  price  and 
extends  a  wrinkled  palm.  Tonio  deposits  upon  it  the  required 
coin,  and  they  are  permitted  to  enter.  Through  a  narrow 
passage,  redolent  of  garlic,  they  pass  into  a  small,  brightly- 
lighted  tap-room,  where  sundry  blue-shirted  ouvriers  can  be 
dimly  discerned  through  the  dense  pipe-smoke,  which  brings 
the  tears  to  Souci's  eyes,  lounging,  drinking,  and  squabbling 
amicably.  The  sudden  glare  of  light,  the  confused  clatter  of 
tongues  and  clinking  of  glasses,  almost  daze  the  poor  children. 

4* 


42  SOUCL 

Their  hostess,  selecting  one  from  a  row  of  keys  hanging  over 
the  bar,  is  beckoning  them  to  follow  her,  when  a  chair  is 
brought  suddenly  down  on  all  fours,  and  a  voice  crying,  gayly, 
"  Hoik,  stop  a  bit,  my  little  man,  and  give  us  a  tune  on  that 
fiddle  of  yours  !  Come,  scrape  away  and  give  us  a  lively  air  !" 
arrests  their  steps.  They  turn  to  fly.  Instantly  there  is  a 
general  descent  of  chairs,  a  stamping  of  hob-nailed  shoes  on 
the  bare  floor,  and  a  chorus  of  voices  vociferously  echoing  the 
demand  for  some  music.  The  landlady,  with  a  keen  eye  to 
business,  now  approaches,  whispering  persuasively,  "  Come, 
play  a  bit,  my  son  !"  Tonio  irresolutely  fingers  his  bow,  and 
looks  at  Souci.  She,  drawn  up  proudly  and  with  arms  folded 
across  her  breast,  and  flashing  eyes,  turns  towards  him  and 
exclaims  aloud,  "  You  sha'n't  play  !  Do  you  hear?  Not  one 
note !  I  am  tired.  I  told  you  not  to  come  in  here  !  You 
sha'n't  play,  I  say.!"  Tonio's  head  droops ;  his  hand  trails 
the  bow  along  the  floor. 

At  this  instant  a  big-headed,  brawny-armed  man,  whose 
flaming  red  nose  betrays  a  decided  weakness  for  strong  waters, 
rolls  over  towards  them  from  a  distant  table.  "  Mais  sac-d- 
pupier .'"  he  roars,  as  he  perceives  Souci,  "  it  is  the  little 
nightingale  of  the  Champs  Elysees  !  Fichtre  !  it's  a  rare  bird 
you've  caught  to-night,  Mother  Grosjean  !  None  of  your 
fiddle-scraping  here,  young  man  !  We  shall  have  a  song,  and 
a  jolly  one,  too  !" 

"  Yes !  yes !  a  song !  a  song !"  resounds  throughout  the 
room.  Souci  stamps  her  foot,  and,  turning  her  back  upon  her 
expectant  audience,  preserves  a  dogged  silence.  By  this  time 
a  group  of  men,  more  or  less  sober,  have  gathered  about  the 
child  ;  some  expostulating,  some  threatening,  all  noisy.  Tonio, 
grown  pale  as  ashes,  watches  her  anxiously.  All  at  once  he 
strikes  up  a  popular  air  on  his  instrument ;  instantly  its  melody 
is  drowned  by  shouts  and  hisses. 

"  A  bos  le  violon  /"  they  cry.  "  We  will  have  a  song ! 
Come  now,  mam'selle,  take  a  sip  of  this  and  you'll  feel  more 
like  it."  And  a  glass  of  vile  absinthe  is  held  to  Souci's  lips, 
now  white  with  anger.  Swiftly  she  turns,  and  with  one  pas- 
sionate glance  sweeps  the  faces  of  her  persecutors,  then,  dash- 
ing to  the  ground  the  offered  glass,  she  springs  past  them, 
gains  the  door  leading  out  upon  the  street,  and  makes  a  frantic, 
but  vain,  effort  to  open  it.  Panting  like  an  animal  at  bay,  she 


NOBODT'S  CHILD.  43 

clasps  her  hands  in  piteous  appeal ;  her  tambourine  drops  at 
IHT  feet ;  her  eyes  are  wild  and  staring.  Instantly  she  is 
seized  in  an  iron  grasp  and  lifted  high  above  the  head  of  the 
big  man  who  had  first  addressed  her. 

"  Some  birds  sing  best  in  the  air !"  he  shouts.  "  Perhaps  thou 
canst ;  try  !"  The  rest  laugh  and  applaud.  Tonio  trembles. 

Souci  is  now  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement.  Burying  her  hands 
in  the  bushy  hair  of  her  captor,  she  kicks  out  viciously  with 
both  feet.  With  a  howl  of  pain  and  rage  the  giant  flings  her 
to  the  ground. 

"  Vixen  !  Wild-cat !  diallesse  /"  he  yells,  whilst  the  blood 
pours  from  his  rubicund  nose  and  his  uprooted  hair  blinds 
him.  "Sacre  nom  d'un  cJiien!  Where  is  she?  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  her  cursed " 

Through  the  now  open  door  a  sergent-de-ville,  attracted  to 
the  spot  by  the  unseemly  hubbub,  is  placidly  gazing.  In  the 
distance  can  be  distinctly  heard  the  sound  of  flying  feet  skim- 
ming lightly  over  the  asphalie. 

******* 

"  That  big  man  will  surely  kill  you  if  he  ever  sees  you 
again,  Souciette  !"  says  Tonio,  with  his  mouth  full  of  sausage, 
as.  half  dead  with  exhaustion  and  nearly  famished,  the  two 
children  devour  their  humble  repast  under  the  shelter  of  the 
market-place.  "  You  must  have  kicked  all  his  teeth  down 
his  throat ;  and  served  him  right,  too ;  but  we  must  leave 
Paris,  or  he  may  kill  you  some  day." 

Souci  is  leaning  languidly  against  the  partition,  the  tart 
only  half  consumed  in  her  hand,  her  face  even  paler  and  more 
wan  than  usual.  She  does  not  appear  terrified  by  Tonio's 
prognostications  ;  her  fit  of  passion  has  left  her  strangely  \\vak 
and  apathetic.  "  Well."  she  says,  dolefully,  "  he  can  only  kill 
me  once,  and  I  don't  care  much  !" 

"  Oh,  Souci !"  cries  the  boy,  with  a  half-sob.  "  You  are 
tired  of  the  life  we  lead,  or  you  would  not  say  that !  I  know 
it  is  very  hard,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  Now,  if  you  had  only 
consented  to  speak  to  the  gentleman  to-day, — I  feel  sute  he 
im-ant  to  do  something  for  us;  he  had  such  a  good,  kind  face, 
and  he  seemed  to  pity  you  so  !" 

"  I  was  afraid,"  she  replies,  in  a  weary  tone.  "  I  am  afraid 
of  people;  they  are  all  cruel ;  I  don't  want  anybody  but  ymi. 
I  am  glad,"  she  goes  on,  as  if  thinking  aloud, — "  I  am  glad  old 


44  SOUCT. 

Pierre  sent  me  away — and  that  Mere  Ursule  beat  me, — for  if 
they  had  not,  I  would  not  be  with  you !  Tell  me  a  fairy-tale, 
Tonio." 

With  a  swift  transition  of  feeling  characteristic  of  her,  she 
smiles,  though  tears  hang  on  her  long  lashes,  and  pleads  coax- 
ingly  for  her  favorite  treat,  tired  and  sleepy  though  she  is. 
Tonio  looks  wildly  about,  seeking  inspiration. 

The  moon  has  not  yet  risen,  but  myriad  stars  stud  the  blue 
canopy  over  their  heads.  Souci  draws  her  companion's  atten- 
tion to  their  beauty. 

"  Is  it  the  fairy-world  up  there,  Tonio,  and  is  this  the  birth- 
night  of  their  king,  that  they  are  lighting  all  their  lamps  ? 
See !  they  are  sending  off  rockets,  too !"  as  a  shooting-star 
flashes  across  space  and  disappears. 

"  Fairy-world  ?"  murmurs  Tonio.  "  That  is  all  nonsense, 
you  know ;  there  aren't  any  fairies,  really;  and  yet,  I  wonder 
what  there  is  up  there?  It's  fine,  anyhow,  and  restful-like, 
and — blue,  isn't  it?"  he  concludes,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh  of 
satisfaction,  which  is  echoed  by  the  child  beside  him,  whose 
imagination  is  straying  wildly,  as  usual. 

"  It  is  like  a  great  field,"  she  says,  dreamily ;  "  like  that 
meadow  at  Vincennes  where  we  spent  Sunday,  where  the  but- 
tercups grew  so'  thick  and  shone  in  the  sun  like  gold  !  Ah, 
far-away  stars  !"  she  cries,  stretching  her  thin  arms  up  towards 
them,  "  I  want  you,  to  touch  you,  to  gather  an  armful  of  you 
as  I  did  of  the  little  gold  flowers !  You  winking,  twinkling, 
mocking  little  stars !  It  is  all  so  dull  and  dark  and  hateful 
down  here,  and  so  bright  and  beautiful  where  you  are  !  Tonio, 

see  !  how  they  smile — and — nod — and — beckon "  The 

words  come  hesitatingly,  the  voice  grows  fainter,  the  weary 
head  sinks  upon  her  breast, — Souci  sleeps. 

Drawing  her  gently  towards  him.  Tonio  supports  her  head 
upon  his  knees,  and,  with  his  arms  clasped  about  her,  falls 
asleep  almost  immediately,  sitting  bolt  upright  that  he  may 
the  better  guard  her  from  the  chill  pavement. 

Between  the  pillars  of  the  market-place  the  moon's  rays 
presently  steal  and  flood  with  their  golden  glory  this  pathetic 
group.  Tenderly  they  kiss  the  pallid,  sleep-calmed  faces,  and 
linger  on  the  low-laid  head  of  the  little  outcast  as  lovingly  as 
upon  that  proud,  "  white  wonder,"  Artemis,  on  its  pedestal  of 
jasper. 


NOBODVS  CHILD.  45 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  HE'S    VUSS   NOR   VICKED HE   LOOKS   GREEN  !" 

"  The  sleepless  hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 

Curtained  with  star-enwovcn  canopies, 
From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, 
Waken  me  when  their  mother,  the  gray  Dawn, 
Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  are  gone." 

Six  weeks  of  itinerant  vagabondage,  of  tasting  the  sweets 
of  liberty  and  the  doubtful  delights  of  an  ill-lodged  and 
scantily-fed  independence ;  a  month  and  a  half  getting  out  of 
Paris, — the  difficulty  of  accomplishing  this  project  appearing 
daily  more  insurmountable, — and  one  night  spent  upon  the 
damp  bricks  of  a  market-place,  have  in  no  wise  checked  the 
ardor  of  the  runaways. 

"  By  this  time  to-morrow  we  shall  be  in  a  foreign  land !" 
Tonio  had  startled  Souci  by  declaring,  before  she  had  quite 
opened  her  eyes  the  next  morning,  as  he  tried  to  restore  cir- 
culation in  his  cramped  limbs  by  stamping  vigorously  on  the 
pavement. 

"  I — I  don't  think  we  are  getting  away  very  fast,"  says 
Souci,  slyly ;  "  and,  oh,  dear,  I  do  wish  we  need  not  go ! 
There  is  no  place  in  the  world  like  Paris  !"  And  the  girl  looks 
about  her,  smilingly,  as  they  emerge  from  the  market-place 
and  wend  their  way  towards  their  favorite  nook  on  the  Pont 
Neuf,  where  they  sometimes  breakfasted. 

"  No  place  like  Paris !"  exclaims  Tonio,  slightly  contempt- 
uous. "  Why,  there's  hundreds  of  cities  bigger  and  splen- 
dider  than  this,  and  not  so  far  away,  neither!  There's  .Mar- 
seilles, and  Lyons,  and  Tours,  and  the  place  I  came  from,  Italy ; 
that's  rather  a  poor  place,  though  :  they  have  nothing  to  cat 
there  but  macaroni ;  and  there's  Versailles, — I've  been  there  ; 
oh,  it's  splendid  !  and  Home,  and — lots  of  'em  !"  memory  and 
breath  failing  together.  Souci's  eyes  are  big  as  saucers. 


46  SOUCL 

"  Really  !"  slie  gasps.  "  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  see  them  ! 
Can  we  walk  to  them,  Tonio?" 

"  Walk  to  them  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  how  ridiculous  you  are, 
Souci !  Walk  !  ha  !  ha !" 

The  quick  tears  rush  to  the  girl's  eyes.  "  You  need  not 
laugh  at  me,"  she  says,  in  hurt  tones. 

"  I'm  not  laughing,  ha  !  ha  !  Why,  they're  thousands  of 
miles  from  here,  over  sea  andjand;  you  go  in  ships  and  on 
railways !  I've  been  in  a  ship,"  Tonio  concludes,  pompously. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  implores  Souci,  meekly,  as  they  en- 
sconce themselves  in  their  niche  on  the  bridge  and  Tonio  draws 
forth  a  handful  of  roast-chestnuts  which  he  has  purchased 
en  route,  and  which,  with  a  couple  of  rolls,  form  their  light 
and  nutritious  breakfast. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  begins,  anxious  to  restore  his  little  com- 
panion's good  humor,  "  it  was  after  my  father  was  shot,  you 
know,  and  corporal  Niccolo " 

"Ah,  begin  at  the  beginning!"  pleads  Souci,  all  smiles. 
"Your  father  was  a  noble  prince,  you  know,  and  lived  in  a 
palace  of  gold  and  silver " 

"  In  Italy,"  continues  the  lad,  gravely  munching  a  chestnut. 
"  And  when  Napoleon — your  Napoleon — made  war  upon  my 
country,  my  father  was  taken  prisoner  and  shot ;  and  then 
Niccolo  deserted, — ran  away,  you  know, — and  escaped  in  a 
fishiog-boat  with  me, — I  was  only  a  very  little  chap  then, — 
and  we  were  picked  up  by  a  brig,  and  sailed  about  for  ever  so 
long  on  a  great,  blue  sea ;  and  the  sailors  made  me  a  little 
suit  of  clothes  like  theirs,  and  by-and-by  we  landed — in 
Paris." 

"And  Niccolo,  he  was  very  good  to  you?"  prompts  Souci. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  took  me  about  with  him  everywhere ;  he 
had  some  money  of  my  father's,  so  that  he  did  not  work  for  a 
living.  Sometimes  we  went  to  see  the  pantomime,  and  often 
to  the  Porte  St.  Martin.  Ah,  that  was  good  !  And  he 
would  buy  me  suo-e  d-orge  and  apples,  and  make  swords  and 
guns  for  me,  and  ships,  and  oh,  lots  of  things.  Yes,  he  was 
good  to  me,  poor  old  Niccolo  !"  Tonio  pauses,  retrospectively. 

"And  then  he  fell  down-stairs  and  broke  his  neck,"  finishes 
Souci  the  oft-told  tale. 

"  Yes,"  adds  Tonio  ;  "  and  then  he  died,  and  I  was  put  out 
on  the  street  without  a  sou — to  starve." 


KOBODY'S  CHILD.  47 

"  Poor  Tonio  !"  A  little  hand  slides  into  his.  "  Heigh-ho  ! 
Why  do  all  the  good  people  die?" 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Some  of  the  wicked  ones  take 
a  great  deal  of  killing !"  replies  the  lad,  shelling  a  nut  and 
dexterously  popping  it  into  Souci's  mouth. 

"  How  happy  we  should  be  if  he  had  not  broken  his  neck  !" 
cries  she.  "  Perhaps  he  would  have  taken  us  to  a  theatre 
to-night !"  ecstatically. 

"  Perhaps  he  would  have  got  drunk  and  beaten  you  as  he 
sometimes  beat  me,"  replies  Tonio,  philosophically.  "  You 
see,  my  child,  there's  lights  and  darks  and  sweets  and  sours 
about  everything,  and  sometimes  when  Niccolo  got  a  lot  of 
red  fire  in  him  he  was  crazy,  and  if  I  hadn't  run  off  and  hid 
myself  in  the  loft  there  wouldn't  have  been  much  left  of  me. 
He  was  a  good  little  fellow  when  he  was  sober,  but  when  he 
got  drunk,  Bigre  I  look  out  then  for  the  cracked  crowns — 
and  girls  can't  always  get  out  of  the  way." 

"  Tonio,  does  everybody  get  drunk  when  they  are  grown 
up?" 

"  Yes ;  everybody  who  is  poor  and  miserable.  I  don't 
think  rich  folks  do.  Why  should  they  ?  They  haven't  got 
no  misery  to  drown." 

Souci  sighs  heavily.  Old  Pierre  under  the  influence  of 
red  fire  appears  before  her  mind's  eye.  With  a  shudder  she 
draws  closer  to  her  companion.  "  You  will  never  get  drunk, 
Tonio,  shall  you  ?"  she  whispers,  earnestly. 

"  Yes ;  I  dare  say." 

Another  sigh. 

"  Well,  what's  the  go  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"I  want  to  know  what's  the  matter?  Are  you  going  to 
cry,  Souci  ?" 

"  No  !"  indignantly.  "  Only — you  said  I  should  never  le 
beaten  again.  When  you  get  drunk  you  will — beat — me, — 
they  all  do, — that's  all."  And  she  breaks  down  with  a  sob. 

"  Then  I  sha'n't  ever  touch  a  drop  of  anything !  Cheer 
up,  Souci !  it  was  only  a  joke ;  I  didn't  mean  it,"  cries  the 
1  oy,  self-reproachful,  peeling  for  her  the  biggest  chestnut  he 
could  find. 

"  Then  that  was  a  lie !''  comments  Souci,  severely,  drying 
her  eyes  on  her  apron. 


48  SOUCL 

•'  Yes,  so  it  was.  See  here,  Souci,"  changing  the  subject 
abruptly,  "  do  you  remember  that  I  promised  to  show  you, 
some  day,  what  old  Niccolo  took  from  iny  father's  neck  after 
he  was  shot?" 

The  diversion  is  a  success.     Souci  beams  again. 

"  Oh,  yes,  show  it  to  me  now,  do,  dear  Tonio,  do,  do !  I 
have  thought  of  it  night  and  day !"  she  cries,  mendaciously. 

"  Wait ;  I  see  somebody  coming.  Nobody  must  see  it,  you 
know." 

"Would  they  take  it  from  you?  Sapristi!  if  they 
dared " 

"They  might  try,  but  I  don't  think  they  would  get  it — 
not  as  long  as  I  lived,  anyhow !"  he  replies,  with  a  flash  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Is  it  gold?"  she  whispers,  awe-stricken. 

"  No !"  contemptuously. 

"  What  can  it  be,  then  ?" 

"  Wait,  and  you  shall  see."  A  man  wearing  the  uniform 
of  a  sergent-de-ville  passes  slowly  over  the  bridge. 

"  I  pnnnot  wait !"  exclaims  Souci,  excitedly.  "  I  hate 
waiting !" 

"  You  would  not  have  them  take  it  from  me,  would 
you?  Here  comes  another  man!  I  don't  think  I  can 
show  it  you  to-day ;  there  are  too  many  people  about  now, — 
to-morrow " 

This  was  more  than  human  nature  could  bear.  Souci  bites 
her  lips  hard  to  restrain  the  passionate  reproaches  behind 
them.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  joy  lights  up  her  face.  "  Oh,  I 
forgot!"  she  cries;  and,  slipping  one  arm  about  Tonio's  neck, 
she  whispers,  caressingly,  "  I  have  got  something  to  show 
you,  too,  Tonio ! — something  to  give  you, — ah,  it  is  beauti- 
ful !  You  shall  have  it  when" " 

"  When  you  have  seen  this  !"  interrupts  Tonio,  tapping  his 
chest,  where  the  treasure  is  concealed ;  and,  rising  to  his  ft  et, 
he  looks  anxiously  about  him,  along  the  bridge;  under  it; 
up  in  the  air ;  far  and  wide ;  not  a  creature  is  within  sight. 
Reseating  himself,  swiftly  he  tears  open  his  jacket  and  vest, 
and,  thrusting  his  hand  under  his  red  flannel  shirt,  he  draws 
forth  a  small  oval  plate  of  Berlin  iron,  which  is  attached  to  a 
slender  steel  chain  about  his  throat. 

"Dame!"  exclaims  Souci,  disdainfully,  "is  that  all?  it's 


NOBODT'S  CHILD.  49 

usly   enough  ! — and    such    a   fuss   as   you    made   about   it ! 
What's  it  for?'' 

Tonio  smiles.  He  is  polishing  busily  its  rusty  surface  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  jacket.  "Wait,"  he  says,  gently;  "don't 
be  impatient,"  turning  it  over  lovingly  in  his  hands.  Souci 
watches  him  curiously. 

At  this  instant  a  shadow  falls  across  them.  They  look  up. 
The  scr>/ent-d<--ville'  is  returning  on  his  beat.  Tonio  covers 
the  medallion  hastily  with  his  hat;  the  man  passes  on. 

"  Does  it  open  ?"  bursts  forth  Souci  before  he  is  out  of 
sight,  her  quick  fancy  suggesting  the  possibility. 

"  Yes,  it  opens.  Look !"  After  one  more  glance  around 
them,  Touio  touches  a  spring;  the  ltd  flies  back  ;  a  shriek  of 
delight  escapes  Souci's  lips.  Within  the  unpretentious  shell 
lies  a  kernel  rich  and  rare.  A  row  of  small  brilliants  sur- 
rounds the  miniature,  exquisitely  painted,  of  a  girl,  whose 
perfect  loveliness  is  enhanced  by  the  magnificence  of  her 
attire.  A  girl  in  the  first  bloom  of  maidenhood,  like  a  rose- 
bud amid  the  sheeny  satin  and  foamy  lace  and  shimmering 
j  >earls  of  her  bridal  dress.  A  girl  with  clear  olive  skin  and 
the  rich  flush  of  youth  in  cheeks  and  lips,  who  looks  out 
from  her  dark,  rippling  tresses,  through  velvety-brown  eyes, 
upon  these  two  wretched  little>  paupers,  with  a  loving,  tender 
glance  which  almost  speaks  sweet  words  to  them. 

••  Why,  Tonio !"  gasps  Souci,  at  last,  tearing  her  eyes  away 
from  the  beguiling  face  and  fixing  them  upon  her  companion's 
quivering  features..  "  Why  !  it  is  like  you, — only  it's  a  lady ; 
the  eyes  are  exactly  like  yours ;  and  the  mouth — and  that 
curly  hair, — and  sec,  Tonio !  the  dimple  in  the  chin  !  Oh, 
/'•  /to  /.<  if .''' 

"  It  is  my  mother,"  the  lad  replies,  in  a  low,  tender  voice. 

"  YOUR  MOTHER!''  She  can  say  no  more;  she  can  only 
bend  over  it  in  amazed  incredulity,  stealing  furtive  glances  at 
Tonio's  grave  face  the  while,  to  make  sure  that  he  is  not  jesting. 

They  are  still  gloating  over  it,  Souci  delighting  in  the 
gleaming  jewels,  the  rich  costume,  the  artistic  arrangement  of 
the  hair. — after  the  manner  of  her  kind, — Tonio  drinking  into 
his  very  soul  a  draught  of  love  and  comfort  from  the  sweet 
face  which  smiles  up  into  his  own. 

••Mmlre  nn'ii!"  the  words  sound  like  a  caress.  "0,lellis- 
///('-(.'"   he  murmurs  to  himself. 
5 


50  SOUCI. 

"  What  is  her  name  ?"  asks  practical  Souci. 

"  Her  name  was  Lucia — is  it  not  a  pretty  name,  Scnici  ? 
Lucia !  She  died  when  I  was  quite  a  little  chap,"  he  adds, 
in  a  lower  tone.  "  My  father's  name  was  the  same  as  mine, — 
Antonio,"  he  resumes,  after  a  moment. 

"  Oh !  to  be  beautiful  like  that !"  cries  Souci,  rapturously. 
"  Tonio,  I — I — am  not — even — pretty,  am  I  ?" 

"  Pretty  ?"  He  looks  at  her  steadily  a  moment,  then  back 
at  the  picture,  and  shakes  his  head.  "  No,  Souci,  you  are 
not  the  least  bit  pretty ;  your  skin  is  yellow,  and  your  cheeks 
aren't  red,  and  your  nose  is  too  big,  and " 

"  Hush !"  she  exclaims,  imperiously,  "  I  don't  want  to  be 
pretty !"  And  her  eyes  fill  with  angry  tears.  "  You're  not 
pretty,  either  P 

"  But  you  said  I  looked  like  this,1'  Tonio  says,  calmly,  won- 
dering at  her  sudden  passion,  and  pointing  at  the  picture  of 
his  mother. 

"  Then,  I  take  it  back ;  you  don't !"  replies  the  child. 

Once  more  the  shadow  of  a  passing  figure  falls  upon  them 
this  time  the  patrol  eyes  them  suspiciously.     Tonio  rapidly 
closes  and  secretes  the  medallion  ;  then,  turning  to  Souci,  he 
asks, — 

"  And  now,  what  have  you  -to  show  me  ?  Be  quick,  for  the 
morning  is  being  wasted,  and  we  haven't  made  a  sou  to-day." 

The  girl's  eyes  are  turned^  away.  She  is  looking  at  some 
distant  object  floating  along  on  the  turbid  river. 

"  Tonio,"  she  says,  dreamily,  "  have  girls  mothers  ?" 

"  Yes,  Souci.'' 

"Where  is  mine,  then?  Where  is  she?  Where  is  she? 
OH,  WHERE  is  SHE  ?"  And  her  voice  grows  into  a  wail. 

"  How  can  I  tell,  Souci  ?"  replies  the  boy,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  I  want  her  !  She  wouldn't  say  I  was  ugly,  and  had 
a  yellow  skin,  and — a — big  nose, — and  she  would  love  me,  1 
know  she  would.  Oh,  why  can't  she  hear  me,  and  come  to 
me  !  Maman  !  Maman  /"  Her  voice  rings  out  upon  the 
air  and  startles  the  half-dozen  brawny-armed  llanchisscvses 
who  are  beating  their  linen  to  rags  under  the  bridge  in  a  vain 
effort  to  cleanse  it  in  the  muddy  Seine. 

"  Souci !  you  are  wicked !  Do  I  not  love  you  ?  I  don't 
care  whether  you  are  pretty  or  not — 

11  But  Ida!"  she  interrupts,  with  an  hysterical  sob. 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  51 

"Chtrie!  petit  chat!  Soudette!"  pleads  Tonio.  "I  am 
d ying  to  see  what  you  have  for  me.  You  promised  to  give 
me  something.  What  is  it?" 

Smiling  through  her  tears,  Souei  draws  from  her  pocket  a 
gorgeous  violet-velvet  pocket-book,  richly  ornamented  with 
gilt.  "  Voila,  /"  she  says,  "  it  is  for  you, — to  keep  the  money 
in,  you  know, — isn't  it  beautiful?" 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?''  he  asks,  turning  it  about  ner- 
vously. 

"  Where  did  I  get  it  ?"  she  repeats,  with  a  puzzled  look. 
"  I  cribbed  it,  yesterday,  from  the  counter  of  that  shop  where 
you  went  in  to  ask  the  time.  Don't  you  remember?  Dont 
yon  like  it,  Tonio?'' 

Gradually  the  truth  breaks  in  upon  the  boy's  mind.  He 
lays  the  pretty  toy  down  upon  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  and 
covers  his  face  with  his  thin,  brown  hands. 

"  Madre  mia  /"  he  murmurs  once  more,  and  then  big  tears 
force  their  way  through  his  fingers ;  tears  which  seem  to 
scald  his  eyes, — tears  which  do  not  flow  readily,  and  which 
blows  and  harsh  language  have  failed  to  draw  forth  for  years. 

Souci's  heart  beats  quickly.  She  does  not  understand  this 
emotion,  but  it  pains  her  bitterly.  With  a  lithe  movement 
she  draws  herself  closer  to  him  and  lays  her  cheek  against  his 
shoulder,  adding,  in  faltering  tones,  "  I  took  it  for  you, — I 
thought  you  would  be  pleased, — and — you  don't  say  any- 
thing  " 

"  You  took  it !  Do  you  mean  you  stole  it?"  exclaims  the 
boy,  pushing  her  roughly  from  him  and  gazing  at  her  with 
pained,  angry  eyes.  "  Say  anything  /"  he  goes  on,  excitedly  ; 
"  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  say  to  a  thief!" 

The  child  shrinks  back,  fairly  cowering  before  the  stern  anger 
of  his  voice  and  manner.  Trembling  all  over,  she  watches  him 
as  he  sits  with  compressed  lips  and  moody  brow  with  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  hateful  pocket-book.  She  cannot  comprehend  this 
abrupt  change  from  his  habitual  gentleness  and  sweetness  of 
temper.  What  has  she  done  to  draw  down  upon  herself  such 
displeasure  as  this,  she  who  has  only  wished  to  give  him  an 
agreeable  surprise  ?  Oh,  it  is  wicked  in  him  to  treat  her  so, — 
and  all  because  his  mother  was  a  great  lady,  and  she  hadn't 
any;  oh,  it  is  cruel  and  hard,  and  she  hates  him !  Here  the 
poor  little  child  breaks  into  passionate  sobs. 


52  SO  UCI. 

Springing  to  his  feet,  Tonio  catches  up  the  pocket-hook  and 
bends  down  to  her,  saying,  "  Tell  me  which  shop  you  took  this 
thing  from :  I  must  take  it  back  this  instant.  Where  was  it  ? 
what  street  ?  I  can't  remember."  His  brows  are  kuit  with  the 
effort  to  recall  the  locality. 

"  I  don't  know ;  oh,  I  can't  tell, — you  frighten  me,"  sobs 
Souci. 

"  We  went  in  to  ask  the  time,  you  said.  Oh,  Souci,  try  to 
tell  me  where  to  take  it;  I  must  take  it  back!"  Already  he 
feels  with  a  pang  that  he  is  branded  forever  as  a  thief;  his  eyes 
burn  into  her  very  heart. 

The  hand  holding  the  pocket-book  is  suddenly  covered  by 
another,  stronger  hand.  "  Aha  !  caught  at  last !"  says  a  quiet 
voice  in  his  ear.  For  the  third  time  the  shadow  falls  across 
the  unfortunate  children,  who  gaze  with  wondering  alarm  in 
the  imperturbable  face  of  the  sergent-de-vitte.  He  is  intently 
examining  the  pocket-book,  inside  and  out.  "  What  have  you 
done  with  the  money  ?"  he  demands  of  Tonio. 

"  Money ?"  stammers  the  lad.  "I — there  was  no  money. 
I  did  not  open  it,  sir." 

"  Ah,  truly  ?  A  likely  story  that !  I've  been  watching  you 
for  half  an  hour.  I  saw  you  both  examining  it."  Souci's 
lips  have  parted  to  pour  forth  indignant  denial  of  this  accusa- 
tion, but  Tonio  checks  her  by  a  swift  imploring  gesture  which 
does  not  escape  the  ferret-eyes  at  his  side.  "  Ha !  the  girl 

wishes  to  confess  the  truth,  but  you However,  it  is  of 

little  importance ;  you  will  march  off  with  me,  you  young 
scamp,  and  we'll  soon  know  what  you've  done  with  the  money." 

Almost  before  the  words  are  uttered,  Souci  has  snatched  the 
pocket-book  from  his  hand  and  flung  it  far  away  over  the  para- 
pet of  the  bridge  into  the  yellow  stream  below,  crying  wildly, — 

"  It  was  I !  I  took  it ;  he  never  steals, — he  is  good  !  Do 
not  dare  to  touch  him  !  He  will  not  go  with  you, — and — • 
you  can  catch  me,  if  you  can  !"  And,  with  one  cat-like  spring, 
she  too  has  cleared  the  parapet,  and  is  scrambling  with  perilous 
dexterity  down  the  slippery  stone-work  of  one  of  the  arched 
supports  beneath  which  flows  the  tranquil  Seine. 

Startled  for  once  out  of  his  self-possession,  the  officer  of  the 
law  takes  a  step  forward,  expecting  to  see  the  fiery  little  crea- 
ture struggling  in  the  water ;  but,  to  his  infinite  annoyance,  he 
encounters  the  vision  of  an  elfish  figure  cosily  ensconced  in  a 


XOBODV'S  CHILD.  53 

niche  just  beyond  his  reach,  uplifting  to  his  a  malicious,  sun- 
burnt face,  whose  white-gleaming  teeth  and  sparkling  eyes  are 
full  of  mocking  diablerie. 

Tonio,  accustomed  to  the  girl's  sudden  freaks,  can  scarcely 
repress  a  smile  as  he  notes  the  contraction  of  the  bushy  brows 
over  those  keen  eyes  which  never  permitted  themselves  to  be 
thwarted  by  even  much  prettier  pictures  than  this. 

One  moment  of  moody  silence  on  the  bridge,  while  Souci 
clasps  her  brown  little  hands  and  shakes  her  tambourine  gayly 
over  her  head  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  hoarse  cackle  of 
the  washerwomen,  who  stand,  hand  on  hip,  contemplating  the 
position  of  affairs.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  he'll  not  catch  her, — the  little 
limb  of  Satan, — not  he,  indeed !"  they  chuckle,  admiringly.  But 
the  scrgent-de-ville  has  laid  a  firm  grasp  upon  Tonio's  shoulder, 
and,  beckoning  a  brother  official  who  is  approaching,  he  briefly 
recounts  his  misdemeanor  and  delivers  the  boy  over  to  him. 

With  one  despairing  glance  at  Souci,  Tonio  moves  away, 
knowing  well  the  fruitlessness  of  resistance ;  but,  before  they 
have  taken  many  steps,  Souci  is  beside  them,  panting  like  a 
hunted  fawn, — having  scaled  the  parapet  once  more  and  darted 
past  the  outstretched  hands  of  the  little  group  which  had  now 
gathered  on  the  scene, — gasping  out,  "  You  must  take  me  too  ! 
I  did  if, — I  steal — everything, — you  must  take  us  both  !"  She 
casts  her  arms  frantically  about  Tonio.  With  a  grim  smile 
the  officer  accedes  to  the  very  extraordinary  request,  and  they 
are  marched  off  amid  the  buzz  of  wonder,  pity,  and  derision 
with  which  lookers-on  always  greet  such  little  incidents.  * 

That  night,  and  for  many  a  night  thereafter,  Souci  moans 
herself  to  sleep  in  the  dormitory  of  a  juvenile  reformatory, — 
her  greatest  grief  being  the  fact  that  a  wall  several  inches 
thick  separates  her  from  her  beloved  companion,  save  during 
the  hours  of  recreation,  throughout  the  endless  days. 

Souci  never  stole  again. 


6* 


54  SOUCL 


CHAPTER   IX. 

BURIED    IN    A   SNOW-DRIFT. 

.  .  .  .  " '  If  I  am  born  into  this  earth,  where  is  my  part  ?  Have  the 
goodness,  gentlemen  of  this  world,  to  show  me  my  wood-lot,  where  I  may 
fell  my  wood,  my  field  where  to  plant  my  corn,  my  pleasant  ground 
where  to  build  my  cabin.' 

"  '  Touch  any  wood,  or  field,  or  house-lot  at  your  peril !'  cry  all  the  gen- 
tlemen of  this  world:  'but  you  may  come  and  work  in  ours  for  us,  and 
we  will  give  you  a  piece  of  bread.' 

*  ***#***$ 

"  The  State  must  consider  the  poor  man,  and  all  voices  must  speak 
for  him.  Every  child  that  is  born  must  have  a  fair  chance  for  his 
b  read ." — E  M  E  RSOS  . 

A  SNOWY  pall  covers  the  meadows  and  the  highway ;  the 
north  wind  bites  cruelly,  and  darker  and  more  impenetrable 
grows  the  twilight,  deepening  into  night,  for  the  sun  has  long 
since  sunk  slowly  behind  the  leafless  woods,  which  stretch  gaunt, 
whitened  limbs  out  against  the  purple  of  the  evening  sky.  A 
sublime  tranquillity,  a  ghostly  stillness,  unbroken  by  a  sound, 
reign  over  this  vast,  white  solitude,  whose  spectral  dreariness  is 
relieved  only  by  the  dark,  irregular  line  marking  the  fence- 
boundaries  of  the  fields,  sleeping  so  placidly  under  their  snow 
blanket, — or  by  the  peaked  roof  of  a  farm-house  here  and  there, 
from  whose  chimney  issues  a  curly  vapor,  spark-sprinkled.  »  In 
the  far  distance  rise,  clearly  defined,  the  steeples  and  spires  of 
the  busy  city  of  Lyons. 

Night  has  fallen,  when  a  heavy  wagon,  drawn  by  three 
powerful  Breton  horses,  about  whose  necks  hang  cheery-sound- 
ing bells,  appears  toiling  along  the  unbroken  white  of  the 
high-road. 

Laden  with  grain  and  household  stores  from  the  distant 
market-town,  their  pi  ogress  has  been  so  impeded  by  the  deep 
snow  that  darkness  has  overtaken  them.  Wrapped  in  a  thick 
cloak,  the  collar  of  which  is  turned  up  about  his  ears,  meet- 
ing the  brim  of  his  hat,  the  belated  farmer  lustily  cheers 


NOBODY'S   CHILD.  55 

and  encourages  by  chirping  expostulation  the  noble  brutes  he 
drives.  Giving  them  their  heads, — for  upon  their  sagacity 
alone  he  depends  to  find  the  road  to  his  farm  through  this 
blank  desert, — he  calls  to  them  affectionately  from  time  to  time, 
"  Come,  now,  Rosine,  stir  yourself,  my  girl,  you  are  giving 
Tricot  the  most  of  the  work  to-night.  Go  it,  my  brave  Bap- 
tiste !  pull  away,  my  lad  !  we'll  soon  be  snug  at  home  !  Fpr 
shame,  Rosine  !  What !  hanging  back  again  ?  Houp-ld  ! 
get  on,  iny  brave  darlings !"  etc.,  in  the  broadest  peasant 
dialect,  which  the  honest  brutes  appear  to  comprehend  per- 
fectly. 

From  time  to  time  the  farmer  casts  a  backward  glance  under 
the  hood  of  his  wagon,  where,  with  their  arms  clasped  tightly 
about  each  other,  slumber  peacefully  among  the  sheaves  two 
way-worn  tramps,  whom  he  had  discovered  perishing  with  cold 
and  fatigue  by  the  road-side  some  miles  back. 

"  He  in  /"  the  good  man  mutters,  "  that  child  may  freeze 
before  we  reach  the  farm.  Honp-ld  !  get  on,  I  say  !" 

Another  frantic  plunge  and  a  continued  strain  on  the  great 
muscles,  and  the  faithful  animals  stop  of  their  own  accord  before 
a  huge  gate  enclosing  a  farm-yard,  at  whose  extremity  stands  a 
thatched  stone  house,  with  its  lower  windows  all  aglow  with 
warm,  red  light. 

Before  the  whinny  of  the  tired  horses  has  ceased,  the  door 
opens,  and  a  woman,  holding  a  lantern  above  her  head,  calls 
out,  in  clear,  ringing  patois,  "  Is  it  thou,  Antoine  ?" 

The  farmer,  having  already  descended  from  the  wagon, 
approaches  his  wife,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  still  sleeping  child. 
"  Here,  wife,"  he  says,  "  I  bring  you  a  poor  little  half-frozen 
wretch  I  picked  up  in  a  snow-drift ;  take  her  within,  and  do 
what  you  can  for  her." 

Without  a  word  the  woman  extends  her  sturdy  arms,  and, 
receiving  in  them  the  light  form,  bustles  back  to  the  warm 
kitchen,  leaving  her  lantern  behind  her. 

The  other  sleeper,  who  has  been  aroused  by  the  cessation  of 
movement,  has  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  now  offers  his  assist- 
ance to  the  farmer  in  unharnessing  and  feeding  the  horses. 
During  this  operation  they  are  followed  closely  and  persist- 
ently impeded  in  their  movements  hv  half  a  do/en  'In^s, 
who  bark  and  yelp  incessantly  their  welcome  to  the  master. 
With  the  utmost  patience  and  affection  the  good  farmer  min- 


56  SOUCL 

isters  to  the  comfort  and  well-being  of  his  great  dumb  friends, 
talking  to  them  constantly  in  the  tenderest  accents,  calling 
them  pet  names,  and  pointing  out  their  several  beauties  to  the 
astonished  lad,  who,  Paris-bred,  is  not  accustomed  to  seeing 
much  gentleness  wasted  upon  the  brute  creation.  True  it  is, 
no  woman  had  ever  been  blessed  by  hearing  from  the  good 
man's  lips  such  caressing  words — not  even  his  bright-faced, 
buxom  wife,  whom  he  loved  right  well — as  did  those  great, 
broad-flanked  brutes  who  whinnied  at  his  voice  and  touch. 

"  Come,  now,"  he  calls  out  in  his  cheery  voice,  "  we  will  go 
within,  my  lad,  and  warm  up  a  bit."  And  with  a  last  lin- 
gering look  at  his  pets,  he  locks  the  stable  and  strides  towards 
the  house,  followed  by  the  boy  and  the  vociferous  dogs.  These 
are  now  ordered  off  by  an  imperative  word  to  their  kennels, 
all  save  one,  an  old  mastiff,  whose  age  renders  him  more  orna- 
mental than  useful,  and  who  is  the  pet  of  the  chimney-corner. 

As  they  enter  the  house,  from  which  an  appetizing  odor 
of  potage  issues,  a  fragile-looking  girl,  sitting  thawing  before 
a  blazing  oak-  and  beech-wood  fire,  springs  forward,  and,  catch- 
ing the  half-benumbed  hand  of  the  lad  in  hers,  cries,  "  Oh, 
why  did  you  not  come  sooner,  Tonio  ?  I  have  been  so  mis- 
erable ;  do  not  leave  me  again !"  And  she  pulls  him  towards 
the  little  bench  which  she  had  occupied  and  makes  him  share 
it  with  her. 

The  farmer,  who  is  boisterously  saluting  his  wife  on  both 
cheeks,  does  not  perceive  this  little  outburst,  and  seating 
himself  at  once  at  the  table  drawn  close  to  the  fire,  on  which 
stands  a  smoking  tureen  of  soup,  flanked  by  a  dish  of  bacon 
and  greens,  to  which  he  is  particularly  partial,  calls  out  to 
them  jovially  to  "  draw  up  their  chairs  and  eat  their  fill."  A 
comfortable  jug  of  cider  occupies  a  corner ;  home-made  cheese 
and  a  smoking  loaf,  with  a  pot  of  honey,  complete  the  frugal 
meal. 

Gathered  about  the  hospitable  board,  the  children  are  plied 
with  the  wholesome  food  thereon.  The  farmer  talks  loud  and 
with  the  drawl  peculiar  to  his  province ;  his  wife  chirrups  an 
accompaniment ;  the  jug  of  cider  passes  swiftly  around. 
Never  have  Tonio  or  Souci  enjoyed  such  a  feast !  Their  frozen 
hearts  melt  before  so  much  joyous  warmth  and  plenty  :  their 
eyes  brighten ;  their  tongues  are  loosed.  They  chatter  like 
monkeys ;  they  laugh  at  nothing.  They  embrace  each  other, 


NOBODY' S  CHILD.  57 

and  shower  caresses  upon  the  purblind  mastiff  who  snuffs  ami- 
cably about  their  feet,  and  give  him  surreptitiously,  morsels  left 
upon  their  plates.  The  past  is  forgotten  ;  the  horrible,  weary 
length  of  months  spent  behind  high  walls  that  shut  out  the  sun- 
shine; the  subsequent  weeks  when,  apprenticed  to  different 
trades,  they  had  passed  their  nights  in  devising  rash  plans  of 
escape,  hoarding  carefully  for  that  purpose  the  sum  of  money 
they  had  earned  by  extra  work  at  the  Reformatory;  and  then, 
eventually,  the  frantic  plunge  taken  once  more  for  liberty,  for 
the  free  Bohemian  existence  which  they  might  live  together. 
The  meeting  at  the  railway  station  at  dawn  of  morning ;  the 
start  in  the  third-class  carriage ;  the  elation,  the  joy,  which 
possessed  them  as  they  felt  themselves  being  borne  away  from 
Paris !  Then  the  exhausted  purse,  the  hunger,  the  fatigue, 
ending  piteously  in  a  snow-drift  which  might  have  been  a  grave. 
They  forget  all  this;  they  glance  not  towards  the  future; 
thanks  to  their  mercurial  temperaments,  they  are  able  to  bask 
in  the  sunshine  of  their  present  respite  from  suffering.  The 
awful  tide  against  whicli  they  must  once  more  struggle,  which 
swallows  up  in  hungry,  wide-stretched  jaws  frail  barks  like 
these,  and  sucks  into  merciless,  fathomless  depths  innumerable 
souls,  seems  far  out  of  reach  of  them  to-night, — its  sullen  roar 
drowned  in  the  cheery  clatter  of  this  homestead. 

After  supper,  Tonio  performs  heroic  feats  on  his  violin,  and 
Souci  sings  her  choicest  ballads.  The  farmer,  lying  back  in 
his  big  chair  with  a  pipe  between  his  lips,  marks  time  with  his 
great  feet  and  applauds  enthusiastically. 

The  old  dog  wags  his  tail  in  lively  appreciation  and  gives  a 
joyful  bark  of  approval,  while  the  good-wife  stares  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  to  sing  like  this?"  drawls  the  master, 
•  smiling  broadly  at  the  girl. 

"  1  am  a  street-singer  of  Paris,  monsieur,"  replies  Souci, 
curtsying. 

"  You  don't  make  much  money  by  it,  do  you,  my  little  one  ?" 
asks  the  practical  old  fellow.  "  Your  clothes  aren't  any  too 
comfortable  for  this  weather.  Wife,  haven't  you  got  a  dud  or 
t\v<>  that  y«.»u  could  turn  to  use  for  this  girl?  she's  barely  cov- 
ered, and  thoc  il.ivs  arc  cold." 

"  And  see,  Antoine ! — oh,  mon    Dicu  !   her  poor  feet  are 
quite  frost-bitten  in  these  miserable  shoes !"     She  has  drawn 
c* 


58  SOVCL 

them  off  tenderly,  and  is  now  applying  some  simple  domestic 
remedy  which  will  afford  relief. 

The  farmer  turns  away  his  face  from  the  sad  spectacle. 
"  Ah,  yes,  that's  the  sort  of  thing  you  see  in  Paris  !  It  is  a 
hard  place,  that,  for  the  poor, — a  hard  place  and  a  cruel  place. 
Come,  boy,"  he  continues,  rising,  and  looking  towards  Tonio, 
"  we'll  go  and  find  a  cosy  nest  for  you  somewhere,  and  the  wife 
shall  put  the  little  one  to  bed,  for  I  want  to  have  a  bit  of  talk 
with  her  after." 

With  a  cheering  word  to  Souci,  Tonio  follows  his  host  to 
the  loft,  where  he  soon  drops  into  delicious  sleep  on  a  comfort- 
able bed  of  hay.  covered  warmly  with  the  woolliest  of  blankets. 

The  "  bit  of  talk"  draws  its  slow  length  far  into  the  night, 
and  resolves  itself  into  a  plan  by  which  these  homeless  ones 
are  to  be  sheltered  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  winter- 
season  in  the  childless  hearts  and  home  of  this  worthy  couple. 

In  such  humble  temples  does  "  the  greatest  of  these"  oft- 
times  enshrine  itself  to  the  glory  of  God. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  SHE   IS  FROM   PARIS,  WIPE." 

A  * 

"Passion  and  expression  is  beauty  itself:  the  face  that  is  incapable  of 
these  is  deformity  itself.  Let  it  be  painted  and  patched  and  praised  and 
advertised  forever,  it  will  only  be  admired  by  fools." — BLAKE. 

"Seeing  those  birds  fly  makes  me  long  for  wings." — BROWNING. 

WHAT  a  happy  winter  that  was,  and  how  the  weeks  flew 
by !  Laughter-  and  jest-laden,  yet  not  idle  weeks,  for  the 
children  felt  as  if  they  could  never  show  their  gratitude  so 
well  as  by  letting  it  ooze  out  of  their  finger-ends  in  tireless 
ministrations  towards  their  worthy  hosts.  Tonio  made  himself 
useful  in  the  barn  and  stable,  while 'Souci  turned  the  instruc- 
tion she  had  received  at  the  Reformatory  to  account  in  manu- 
facturing for  herself  a  wardrobe  from  the  "  duds"  bestowed 
upon  her,  and  in  adding  materially  to  that  of  the  good  farmer's 
wife.  She  also  aided  in  the  duties  of  the  farm-yard,  enjoying 


NOBOD1"S   CHILD.  59 

intensely  the  vivacious  greetings  of  poultry,  pigs,  and  geese  at 
feeding-time,  choosing  her  favorites  among  them,  and  growing 
softened  and  more  gentle  through  the  beneficent  influences  of 
this  healthful,  simple,  rustic  life,  of  which  the  novelty  had  not 
yet  worn  off. 

Before  the  daffodils  had  ventured  to  peep  forth, — before 
spring  had  fairly  come, — Souci  had  changed  so  utterly  in  ap- 
pearance that  few  would  have  recognized  her  as  the  thin, 
solemn-eyed  little  creature  who  had  sung  a  year  ago  in  the 
streets  of  Paris.  She  had  grown  taller,  and,  though  far  from 
robust,  had  gained  flesh  and  strength.  Her  complexion,  of  a 
clear  pallor,  boasted  no  ruddy  tint,  but  the  hollows  under  the 
eyes  had  disappeared,  and  the  long  dark  lashes  formed  the  sole 
shadow  on  the  face.  Her  hair,  of  a  bright  yellow  color,  had 
grown  long  enough  to  bind  in  curious  braids  about  her  well- 
shaped  head,  and  her  large,  sensitive  mouth  disclosed  teeth 
regular  and  white  as  pearls.  Few  would  have  thought  her 
handsome, — it  was  the  one  bitter  grief  to  her  that  she  could 
not  consider  herself  so. 

But  what  beauty  of  form  or  coloring  has  been  found  to  equal 
in  power,  to  work  such  mortal  woe,  as  that  same  large-featured, 
tintless,  passionate-eyed  face,  in  the  high  noon  of  its  maturity  ? 
Be  sure  that  the  sirens  who  have  sung  men  mad  since  the 
creation  have  not  been  of  the  Sir  Peter  Lely  type.  They  were 
women  who  could  not  simper,  or  mince,  or  languish,  but  whose 
mobile  lips  could  relax  into  the  great  bewildering  smile  which 
ensnared  souls  to  their  undoing ;  women  whose  sensibility  and 
emotional  nature  were  not  painted  in  rose-hues  on  their  cheeks, 
but  were  hidden  far  out  of  sight  of  the  daws  who  peck  at 
the  glitter  of  false  jewels  as  eagerly  as  at  the  gleam  of  true. 
They  were  women  who  embodied  a  magnetism  so  subtle  and  so 
potent  that  friends  and  foes  yielded  equally  to  its  influence ; 
whose  power  for  good  was  submerged  in  the  greater  fascination 
of  evil ;  who,  blinded  by  victory,  used  their  strength, -like 
Samson  of  old,  in  dragging  down  the  fair  temples  of  men's 
lives,  crushing  themselves,  perchance,  under  the  ruin  they  had 
wrought. 

Into  such  a  woman  as  this  Souci  is  developing  day  by  day. 
Better — you  say — had  she  perished  in  the  snow-drift  on  the 
highway?  better  had  the  good  Samaritan  who  rescued  her 
passed  by  OB  the  other  side  ? 


60  SOUCI. 

We  shall  see. 

Plato  tells  us,  "  The  scul  of  man  has  in  it  a  driver  and  two 
horses :  the  one  strong  and  willing,  quick  to  obey  and  eager 
for  applause,  for  honorable  praise ;  the  other  unruly,  ill-con- 
ditioned, greedy,  and  violent,  whom  only  flogging  and  the  goad 
can  control.  Do  what  the  driver  within  us  will,  our  better 
horse  may  be  seduced  at  times  from  his  duty,  his  evil  yoke- 
fellow may  obtain  the  mastery  and  bear  away  all  to  destruc- 
tion." 

In  some  natures  this  contradictory  pair  exist  but  in  a  coma- 
tose state,  stirred  neither  by  the  instinct  of  progression  nor  the 
impulse  of  rebellion.  In  a  lethargic  dulness  they  creep  along 
their  allotted  span,  incapable  of  grand  virtues  as  of  great  vices  ; 
neither  soaring  to  the  heights  nor  descending  to  the  depths ; 
never  having  watched  the  sun  rise  from  the  brow  of  Olympus, 
nor  held  hand  over  throbbing  heart  amid  the  drear  shadows 
of  Avernus.  Such  natures,  colorless  as  crystal,  without  its 
purity,  radiating  from  themselves  neither  heat  nor  light,  polyp- 
like  floating  sluggishly  upon  a  turbid,  brackish  stream  they 
miscall  life,  form  but  the  neutral-tinted  background  encircling 
the  arena  where  the  great  struggle  goes  on  eternally;  where 
the  lists  are  entered,  spear  in  rest,  and  visor  down ;  where  the 
pulse  beats  high  and  the  sweat  pours  forth  ;  where  knightly 
prowess  and  knightly  heart  bear  off"  the  prize ;  where  mortal 
thrust  is  ofttimes  dealt  unwittingly  and  the  vanquished  bites 
the  dust  in  silent  agony ;  and — where  the  victor  is  crowned 
immortally. 

There  are  men — and  women — born  gladiators.  To  them 
the  tranquil  monotony,  the  stagnant  routine  of  a  cut-and-dried 
existence,  pure  and  simple,  are  stifling.  The  mechanical  exer- 
cise of  certain  faculties  but  indicates  to  them  the  rust  accumu- 
lating upon  others  of  a  higher  order:  the  hum  of  the  spinning- 
wheel,  the  whirr  of  the  threshing-flail. — music  to  some  ears, 
— becomes  a  discordant  roar  in  theirs.  •  Women  are  not  all 
made  Griseldas, — as  there  are  "  men,  by  St.  Thomas !"  who 
"  cannot  live  like  bees  /" 

Scarcely  have  the  days  begun  to  lengthen  and  the  spring  sun 
to  beam  down  warmly  on  the  newly-awakened  earth,  when 
Souci  is  beset  by  a  fever  of  restlessness.  Vague  longings  for 
the  old,  wandering  life,  full  of  incident,  adventure,  hardship, 
as  it  was,  possess  her ;  the  slumberous  inaction,  the  tranquil 


NOBODY ~S  CHILD.  61 

peace  of  these  long,  warm,  drowsy  days  at  the  farm,  oppress 
her  suffocatingly. 

She  is  but  a  child  of  the  pave,  remember ;  her  vagabond 
instincts  are  bred  in  the  bone.  The  ozone  of  the  hills  and 
valleys,  untainted  by  the  malarious  breath  of  cities,  pains  the 
moral  lungs  unaccustomed  to  its  purity.  "«7'ai  beSoin  de 
mencanaillcr  /"  poor  Sophie  Arnauld  used  to  cry,  satiated 
with  champagne  and  luxury,  ortolans,  petits  abbes,  and  French 
'nobles, — stirred  by  the  same  vagrant  restlessness  which  inspires 
discontent  in  Souci. 

The  "  evil  yoke-fellow"  in  her  soul  champs  and  frets,  strain- 
ing against  curb  and  bit,  to  bear  her  away  from  this  safe  refuge, 
this  peaceful  shelter,  into  the  rough -jostling  world,  into  the 
heat  and  tumult  of  the  conflict  which  shall  rage,  henceforth, 
about  her  until  the  end. 

The  first  suggestion  of  departure  is  nipped  in  the  bud  by 
the  good  farmer's  wife,  who  has  grown  fond,  in  her  un- 
demonstrative fashion,  of  this  wayward,  fanciful  child,  and 
dreads  nothing  more  than  parting  with  her.  By  redoubled 
kindness  she  strives  to  reconcile  her  to  the  life  of  respectable 
vegetation  at  which  Souci's  every  instinct  rebels,  and  against 
which  every  bird,  and  bee,  and  butterfly,  darting  hither  and 
thither  in  the  free  sunshine, — wheresoever  they  list, — tempt 
her  to  mutiny.  Each  day  she  eyes  more  and  more  wistfully 
the  old  tambourine  hanging  on  the  wall  of  her  little  bedroom ; 
each  morning,  upon  awaking,  her  gaze  seeks  eagerly,  from  the 
tiny  window  beneath  the  eaves,  the  far-off  spires,  glittering  in 

the  sun,  of  the  city  of  Lyons. 

********* 

June  has  come,  and  with  it  Souci's  resolution  bursts  into 
blossom,  her  restlessness  ripens  into  revolt.  "I  will  go!" 
.she  says  to  Tonio,  in  firm  tones,  as  they  linger  in  the  orchard 
among  piled  baskets  of  cherries  they  have  gathered  for  the 
market.  "  I  must  go ;  it  is  stronger  than  I ;  I  must  go ! 
Yes,  you  beauties," — she  empties  her  last  apron-full  of  the  ripe 
fruit  on  the  over-heaped  basket  as  she  speaks, — "  when  you 
start  for  the  big  city  yonder,  I  shall  go  with  you  too !" 

Tonio,  silent  and  downcast,  does  not  attempt  to  dissuade 
her  further  ;  his  futile  arguments  are  exhausted ;  nothing  re- 
mains for  him  now  but  a  sad  acquiescence. 

"  She  is  from  Paris,  wife,"  the  farmer  whispers  when  Jeanne 
G 


62  SOUCI. 

sheds  a  few  unrestrainable  tears  on  his  shoulder  that  night  after 
Souci  has  fallen  asleep  with  a  smile  on  her  lips.  "  What  canst 
thou  expect  ?  It  is  a  bad,  hard  place,  and  a  cruel  place,  is  Paris !" 

"  She  will  come  back,  Antoine, — oh,  say  she  will  come  back 
to  us, — when  she  is  tired  and  hungry  and  foot-sore  again  ?" 
She  searches  his  face  piteously  for  a  ray  of  hope. 

"  I  don't  know.  She  is  a  stubborn  little  lass,  and  will  have 
her  head,"  he  answers,  slowly ;  "  as  hard  to  manage  as  a 
month-old  filly.  A  proud  one  she  is,  with  a  fierce  bit  of 
spirit  about  her.  No,  you  must  not  expect  to  see  her  here 
again,  my  good  Jeanne ;  she  will  starve  before  she  will  return 
to  us  now !"  Here  his  voice  breaks,  and  he  blows  his  nose 
boisterously. 

Jeanne  is  only  human,  therefore  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that,  after  those  first  bitter  tears  have  relieved  her,  she  begins 
to  resent  a  little  Souci's  obstinacy,  and  to  accuse  her  in  her 
heart  of  ingratitude,  knowing  naught  of  the  species  to  which 
the  child  belongs. 

When,  at  the  moment  of  separation  the  next  morning, 
Souci  clings,  with  passionate  sobs  and  tears,  to  her  benefac- 
tress, after  having  embraced  tenderly  every  dumb  beast  and 
fowl  she  could  catch  in  her  impetuous  arms,  her  emotion  is 
set  down — not  unreasonably — to  hypocrisy,  or  at  least  to  some 
Parisian  affectation  which  is  beyond  the  comprehension  of 
these  blunt,  simple-hearted  folk.  They  stare  open-eyed  at  an 
exhibition  of  grief  to  which  her  voluntary  renunciation  gives 
the  lie,  and  chilled  by  their  apparent  coldness  and  insensibility 
the  children  clamber  up  into  the  wagon,  which  is  to  carry  them 
into  the  city  of  Lyons,  with  heavy  hearts  and  proud  trembling 
lips.  The  farmer  cracks  his  whip,  the  old  mastiff  runs  for- 
ward wagging  his  tail  and  barking  feebly  his  farewell,  and 
they  start  off  without  one  backward  glance. 

Jeanne  stands  at  the  gate,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  sun- 
burnt hand  from  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  watching  with 
longing  intentness  for  one  more  look,  one  smile,  a  wave  of  the 
hand  from  under  the  white  cover  of  the  wagon, — in  vain. 
Then,  throwing  her  apron  over  her  face,  she  runs  into  the 
house,  and,  going  straight  up  into  Souci's  little  room,  she 
kneels  down  beside  the  bed,  and  weeps  as  Rachel  of  old  wept 
when  the  solitariness  of  her  childless  home  broke  wofully  upon 
her,  and  she  "  would  not  be  comforted,  because  they  were  not." 


BOOK  II. 

TONIO. 
CHAPTER  I. 

PROPHECY. 


"  The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze." 

YOUNG. 

IN  the  city  of  Lyons  there  is  a  long,  narrow  street  of  old- 
fashioned,  gabled  houses  with  dormer-windows  in  front,  whose 
first  floors  are  occupied  by  petty  tradesmen,  shoemakers,  tailors, 
grocers,  and  the  like,  while  the  upper  stories  are  devoted  to 
other  branches  of  industry. 

In  -one  of  the  dormer-windows  aforesaid,  a  girl  sits,  leaning 
out  a  little  to  catch  the  fast-fading  light  of  an  April  evening 
upon  the  work  which  she  stitches  rapidly.  The  girl  is  young,  — 
not  more  than  fifteen,  —  if  one  may  judge  from  the  graceful  lines 
of  her  figure  defined  like  a  silhouette  against  the  yellow  twi- 
light, but  when  she  rises  presently  and,  laying  aside  her  work 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  lights  the  taper  floating  in  a  cup  of  oil, 
one  is  surprised  at  the  evident  disparity  between  her  youthful- 
ness  of  form  and  the  stern  sadness  which  marks  her  noble 
features,  the  soft  melancholy  which  lies  in  the  deep  gray  eyes. 

The  little  room  is  barely  furnished,  but  scrupulously  clean. 
There  is  a  tiny  cooking-stove,  a  table,  two  chairs,  and  a  foot- 
stool. On  the  walls  hang  a  couple  of  cheap  prints  ;  and  on 
the  window-seat  stand  a  few  pots  of  mignonette  and  hyacinth. 
The  floor  is  bare. 

The  girl  busies  herself  about  the  stove  for  a  few  moments, 
then  drawing  forth  the  table,  she  covers  it  with  a  white  cloth, 
and  places  a  couple  of  plates,  knives  and  forks,  a  small  wheateu 

63 


64  SOUCI. 

loaf,  and  a  tiny  pat  of  butter  upon  it.  She  is  about  to  peep  into 
the  steaming  saucepan  for  the  second  or  third  time,  to  make 
sure  that  the  good  bouillon  is  thoroughly  heated,  when  the 
sound  of  footsteps,  hastily  mounting  the  stairs,  causes  her  to 
lift  her  head  and  listen  with  a  bright  smile  on  her  lips,  which 
alters  the  whole  face  by  its  magic  light.  "  Just  in  time,  Tonio !" 
she  exclaims,  lifting  the  saucepan  from  the  stove  and  ladling 
out  its  contents,  while  the  handsome  youth  who  enters  hangs 
his  cap  on  a  peg  beside  the  door  and  draws  the  chairs  up  to 
the  table. 

"  Who  do  you  think  I  met  to-day  as  I  was  carrying  home 
some  work,  Souci  ?  Guess  !"  he  asks,  presently,  between  his 
spoonfuls  of  soup. 

"  I  cannot ;  tell  me,  please,"  the  girl  answers,  eagerly. 

"  Old  farmer  Antoine ;  he  had  been  bringing  in  a  wagon- 
load  of  cherries, — I  wonder  who  gathered  them  for  him  ? — and 
he  seemed  so  glad  to  see  me.  Souci,  it  will  be  three  years 
next  month  since  he  brought  us  to  the  city  and  left  us  crying 
in  the  market-place.  How  you  cried,  and  yet  how  stubborn 
you  were  !  nothing  would  persuade  you  to  go  back  with  him, — • 
poor  old  fellow !" 

"  And  was  I  wrong,  Tonio  ?  Are  we  not  happy, — happier  far 
than  we  could  ever  be  in  that  stifling  farm-house,  living  like 
moles?  Ah,  we  can  work  with  a  will  now,  when  we  feel  that 
we  are  free  ;  and  our  evenings ! — oh,  Tonio,  could  we  ever  have 
had  such  evenings  as  we  have  now  ?"  Souci  clasps  her  hands 
with  the  old  familiar  gesture,  and  her  eyes  glow. 

"  Too  happy  to  last,  I  am  afraid,"  Tonio  answers,  seriously. 
"  I  am  always  afraid  of  happiness.  How  jolly  we  were  before 

that  dreadful  morning  on  the  Pont  Neuf "  He  checks 

himself  suddenly,  biting  his  lip  with  vexation. 

With  a  little  cry,  "  Oh,  don't,  Tonio !"  the  girl,  whose  face 
has  flushed  scarlet,  starts  up  from  her  chair,  and,  crossing  the 
room,  pretends  to  be  busy  in  preparing  the  next  dish. 

"  Never  mind,  Souci,  it's  all  over  now ;  and  that  year  in  the 
Reformatory  did  us  both  good.  You  learned  to  sew  all  these 
wonderful  things,"  glancing  at  a  pile  of  neatly-folded  work  on 
the  window-seat,  "  and  I  was  taught  the  trade  which  is  to 
make  our  fortune.  How  else " 

"  Yes !"  interrupts  Souci,  with  a  flash  of  the  old  impetuosity, 
and  holding  her  head  very  erect.  "  Yes !  and  I  was  taught,  for 


TOA70.  65 

the  first  time  in  my  life,  Tonio,  that  I  should  not  steal — or — 
•wear  .'" 

"  I  know,  my  poor  girl ;  I  was  very  hard  on  you  that  day  ; 
I  have  been  sorry  for  it  ever  since.  But,"  he  continues,  cheer- 
ily, "  it  was  all  for  the  best,  you  see  ;  we  are  as  happy  as  the 
day  is  long,  and  to-morrow  will  be  our  holiday." 

"  Ah,  that  is  true,"  smiled  Souci,  gratefully  ;  "  and  I  have 
learned  a  new  ballad,  Tonio.  Such  a  beauty !  Nanine  taught 
me  the  words,  and  I  invented  the  air.  Listen,  it  goes  like  this." 
And,  laying  down  her  knife  and  fork,  she  warbles  in  an  under- 
tone,— 

"  Laissex-tnoi  arranger  ma  chevelure 
Et  mettre  mes  gants  blancs, 
Ainsi  que  mes  pierres  fines  et  mes  diamants " 

"  Pardon  !  Monsieur  Pipelet  has  sent  to  know  whether  the 
work  is  finished."  A  comical  old  face,  with  a  pair  of  twinkling 
eyes  and  a  good-humored  grin,  is  obtruded  through  the  open 
door. 

"Entrez,  Monsieur  Theophile ;  you  are  welcome,"  says 
Tonio,  grandly,  offering  him  his  seat. 

"  Tra-la-la,  tra-la-la,  la-la-la — la-la !"  warbles  Souci,  louder 
and  louder.  The  man  comes  in  sideways,  and,  declining  the 
chair  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  holding  a  shoemaker's  last,  he 
leans  against  the  wall,  listening  to  the  sweet,  clear  notes  which 
fill  the  room  with  harmony. 

"  Confess  that  you  came  to  hear  me  sing,  and  not  about  the 
work,  and  I'll  sing  for  you  again  !"  cries  Souci,  at  last,  laughing 
and  nodding  at  their  next-door  neighbor. 

He  studies  his  leather  apron  a  moment  silently,  and  then 
stammers,  "  Well,  mam'selle,  perhaps  it  was  that ;  I  couldn't 
help  coming  in  to  hear  the  end  of  that  verse.  You  see,  I  don't 
get  much  music  out  of  this,"  and  he  glances  at  the  last,  "  and 
I  am  so  fond  of  it !  Oh,  mam'selle,  it  is  a  pity  for  you  to  go 
on  binding  waistcoats  and  working  for  that  little  fool  of  a 
Pipelet.  when,  mon  Dieu !  you  could  fill  the  Opera-House  at 
Paris  with  such  a  voice  as  yours !" 

The  girl  has  risen  from  her  chair,  and  slowly  approaches 
him  as  he  speaks.  "  Patience,  M.  Theophile,"  she  says,  in  a 
calm,  low  tone  ;  "  all  that  you  say  is  true,  quite  true.  Some 
day  /  shaU  Jill  the  Opera-House  in  Paris  !"  Then  she  goes 
back  to  her  seat,  and,  taking  the  bofetle  of  ordinaire,  she  fills 

6* 


66  SOUCI. 

her  glass  to  the  brim.  "  Here !  drink  this  to  that  day,  Monsieur 
Theophile, — that  glorious  day  which  the  future  has  in  store  for 
me, — when  I  shall  have  the  great  world  of  Paris  at  my  feet !" 

"  Souci,  you  are  mad  !"  mutters  Tonio,  sadly. 

Little  Theophile  draws  nearer.  Drinking  the  wine  down 
at  a  gulp,  he  sets  the  glass  on  the  table,  and  draws  his  sleeve 
across  his  lips.  "  May  I  live  to  see  the  day,  mam'selle  !"  he 
says,  with  earnestness  ;  ''  and  I  feel  that  I  shall.  If  it  should 
cost  one-half  my  clientele,  I  shall  go  up  to  Paris  to  see  your 
triumph.  Yes,  mam'selle,  among  all  the  splendid  bouquets 
and  flower-crowns  that  are  thrown  to  you,  you  will  find  one 
little  simple  wreath,  and  then  you'll  know  that  poor  old  Thoo 
phile,  the  bootmaker,  lived  to  see  that  day  !"  The  tears  sparkle 
in  the  bright  little  eyes ;  the  Punchinello  face  is  crimson  with 
enthusiasm. 

Souci  seizes  his  hand  and  presses  it  fervently.  "  Merci ! 
merci  !"  she  cries.  "  And  now  listen  to  my  new  ballad." 

Closing  the  window,  she  lets  out  the  full  power  of  her  mag- 
nificent voice,  which  has  gained  in  volume,  in  flexibility,  and 
in  strength  since  we  last  heard  her  on  the  Champs  Elysees, 
four  years  ago.  Breathless  with  delight,  her  auditors  stand 
spell-bound.  The  room  appears  to  expand,  the  low-coiled  walls 
to  fall  away.  The  bare  floor  changes  into  soft  velvet  turf; 
there  are  varying  clouds  overhead ;  and  the  music  of  running 
brooks,  and  the  song  of  myriad  birds,  till  the  air.  Sordid 
poverty  and  the  grind  of  ceaseless  toil  vanish  forever ;  the 
great  wide  universe,  breathing  forth  beauty  and  light,  as  in 
the  first  days  when  He  made  it  and  saw  that  it  was  good, 
stretches  out  before  their  eyes,  transfigured  under  the  influ- 
ence of  that  wonderful  voice.  When  she  ceases  singing,  the 
air  still  seems  to  vibrate.  She  is  calm  ;  Tonio  and  their 
neighbor  stand  silent,  almost  awed. 

"  Eh  lien!"  she  says,  at  last,  "have  I  struck  you  dumb? 
or  deafened  you  with  my  noise  in  this  cramped  little  cup- 
board?" And  she  throws  open  the  window  again,  and  leans 
out  to  breathe  more  freely. 

"  It  is  a  miracle  !"  is  the  only  comment  which  Theophile  can 
find  in  his  stunned  little  head.  "  A  miracle !"  Then  he 
edges  out  of  the  room,  and  returns  to  his  tapping  and  pegging 
with  a  dazed  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  he  had  witnessed  in  fact 
a  supernatural  phenomenon. 


TONIO.  67 

Tonio  and  Souci  led  a  twofold  existence.  The  first  year 
after  their  arrival  in  Lyons  had  proved  one  of  such  various 
and  trying  vicissitude  that  Tonio  could  not  but  acknowledge, 
with  a  shudder  of  fear,  that  Souci  would  be  unable  to  bear 
another  twelvemonth  of  vagrancy. 

She  reluctantly  agreed  to  his  suggestion  that  they  should 
abandon  their  street-wandering  and  earn  their  living  in  some 
less  exposed  and  more  respectable  employment,  but  only  on 
condition  that  one  day  out  of  each  week  should  be  spent  after 
the  old  fashion,  with  tambourine  and  violin  in  the  open  air. 
In  vain  had  Tonio  striven  to  dissuade  her  from  these  weekly 
relapses  into  vagabondage ;  in  vain  had  he  assured  her  that 
her  long-skirted,  neatly-fitting  print  gown  and  little  white 
apron  were  far  more  becoming  than  the  short,  striped  petticoat 
and  black  bodice  she  persisted  in  assuming  on  her  holiday. 
She  would  only  laugh,  and  answer  with  mock  reproach,  "  Only 
one  day  out  of  the  seven,  Tonio !  and  you  grudge  me  that !" 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  hid  a  secret  hope, — a  hope  on  which 
she  fed  during  the  long,  busy  hours  whilst  she  stitched  and 
braided  countless  articles  of  apparel,  in  which  she  took  no  more 
interest  than  that  they  would  give  her  the  means  to  keep  alive 
— and  wait. 

"  One  day  every  week  I  shall  sing  in  the  Place  des  Terreaux," 
she  would  whisper  to  herself;  "  there  are  always  people  there, — 
about  the  Hotel-de-Ville  and  the  Musee ;  I  shall  sing  there 
to  the  stocks  and  stones  who  stare  and  clap  their  hands  and 
— go  their  way.  But  some  day  a  great  man — a  prince,  per- 
haps— shall  hear  me,  and  then " 

This  was  her  dream.  Poor,  restless,  ambitious  little  heart! 
Year  after  year  has  rolled  by,  and  she  still  stitches  waistcoats 
in  her  attic. 

They  are  "as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,"  Tonio  has  said, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  that  Eve-transmitted  tendency  of  hers 
— the  desire  for  the  unknown — Souci  could  have  echoed  his 
assertion.  As  it  was,  she  was  a  very  woman, — imaginative, 
aspiring,  full  of  unquiet  hopes  and  fancies  ;  looking  over  and 
beyond  the  boundary-line  of  her  lot  in  life ;  straining  her  gaze 
ever  towards  the  unattainable. 

Why  is  it  that  we  are,  none  of  us,  as  happy  in  our  present  as 
we  believe  that  we  have  been  in  our  past?  and  shall  we  not  assert 
the  same  when  in  future  years  we  look  back  upon  to-day  ? 


68  SOUCI. 

In  the  flower-crowns  we  long  for,  we  do  not  perceive  the 
thorns  which  shall  pierce  the  tender  flesh;  in  the  cup  of  adula- 
tion we  dream  of,  we  divine  not  the  bitterness  of  the  lees. 
And  if  we  did,  would  that  deter  us?  No.  Human  nature 
can  no  more  do  without  unhappiness  than  human  lungs  can 
dispense  with  oxygen  ;  it  is  part  of  our  birthright,  and  we  will 
not  be  cheated  out  of  it. 

Thus  each  man  and  woman  makes  of  his  or  her  life  a  little 
Iliad  of  woes;  gnashes  his  or  her  teeth,  and  rails  at  destiny. 
Poor  Destiny ! 

It  is  my  belief  that  the  much-abused  Parcae  are  but  three 
pegs  formed  by  the  ancients — on  which  we  hang  our  own 
perversity. 


CHAPTER  II. 


"I  DO  NOT  LOVE  YOU  ANY  MORE. 

.  .  .  .  "  The  hart,  though  hard  pressed  by  the  hounds, 
******  «-  *  * 

Is  more  to  be  envied,  though  Death  with  his  dart  follow  fast  to  destroy, 
Than  the  tame  beast  that,  pent  in  his  paddock,  tastes  neither  the  danger 

nor  joy 
Of  the  mountain,  and  all  its  surprises.     The  main  thing  is  not  to  live 

long, 
But  to  lice!"  ....  — OWEN  MEREDITH. 

Souci  has  been  singing  on  the  Place  des  Terreaux.  A 
motley  throng,  gathered  about  her,  applaud  vociferously. 

Silence  follows,  and  once  more  the  sweet  voice  is  raised  in  a 
succession  of  exquisite  trills. 

At  that  moment  a  fiacre  passing  swiftly  is  suddenly  stopped ; 
a  gentleman  hastily  descends,  and,  bidding  the  coachman  wait, 
crosses  the  Place  in  the  direction  whence  the  voice  proceeds. 

-"Surely — but  no,  it  is  impossible!"  he  mutters;  "yet  I 
could  swear  there  is  not  such  another  voice  in  France  !"  Elbow- 
ing his  way  through  the  crowd,  he  attains  a  position  whence  he 
can  overlook  the  heads  of  those  in  advance  of  him.  Instantly 
he  recognizes  the  little  singer  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  whom 


TONIO.  69 

he  had  sought  vainly  for  many  weeks,  years  ago,  in  the  streets 
of  Paris. 

Raoul  Delacroix  is  not  prone  to  give  "way  to  outward  demon- 
stration ;  his  is  a  quiet,  rather  reserved  nature,  which  rarely 
betrays  itself  in  visible  signs, — the  character  of  his  mind  being 
rather  intellectual  than  emotional.  Few  would  suppose,  as 
they  glance  at  the  tranquil,  self-reliant  face,  that  his  heart 
is  beating  wildly,  as  he  had  almost  feared  it  never  could  beat 
again,  whilst  he  stands  listening  to  the  final  roulade  with 
which  Souci  finishes  the  afternoon's  performance. 

When  Tonio  approaches  him  with  the  tambourine  he  con- 
trives to  say  a  few  words  to  him,  which  cause  the  lad  to  flash 
a  quick  glance  up  into  his  face,  and  to  ask,  promptly,  "  Which 
hotel,  monsieur?" 

"  Hotel  de  1'Univers,  at  the  side  of  the  railway  station  of 
Perrache  ;  do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  Perfectly,  monsieur ;  I  shall  be  there  at  eight  o'clock." 
Tonio  is  about  to  pass  on,  when  the  gentleman  touches  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Stay  ;  here  is  my  card.     Can  you  read  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur."  (M.  Theophile,  Souci,  and  he  struggle 
ambitiously  with  the  rudiments  every  evening.) 

"Raoul  Delacroix,"  reads  the  stranger.  "  You  will  ask  for 
Monsieur  Delacroix,  No.  38." 

"Bien,  monsieur." 

It  is  not  until  Souci  has  finished  her  frugal  supper  and  has 
settled  down  to  a  piece  of  work  which  must  be  taken  home  in 
the  morning,  that  Tonio  unburdens  himself  of  the  mysterious 
command  the  strange  gentleman  had  laid  upon  him.  Souci 
listens  with  every  sense  on  the  alert  and  with  wild  thrills  of 
joy  running  through  her.  "Jf.  is  the  prince,  at  last !  at 
last  /"  she  says;  and  when  Tonio  bursts  into  a  loud  laugh  at  the 
gravity  with  which  she  announces  this  fact,  she  springs  up  and 
boxes  his  ears.  Then,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  she 
kneels  down  beside  him,  and  cries  a  little,  from  excess  of  joy, 
on  his  shoulder.  "  Ah,  Tonio,  I  have  waited  so  long  for  him, 
90  long,  and  now  all  will  be  so  different !  Oh,  let  us  go  and 
tell  dear  old  Theophile, — shall  we  not?" 

"  Tell  him — what  ?"  asks  Tonio,  calmly. 

"  Tonio,  you  are  cruel !"  the  girl  exclaims,  chilled  by  his 
manner. 


70  SOUCL 

"  No,  Souci,  I  am  not  cruel,  but  you  are  crazy  !  May-be 
this  gentleman  desires  a  servant,  a  valet,  and  intends  proposing 
the  situation  to  me ;  perhaps  he  wants  to  send  me  with  a  mes- 
sage somewhere — or  to •" 

"  Don't,  Tonio  ;  I  shall  cry  again  if  you  go  on  so  !" 

"  Well,  wait  until  I  come  back  and  tell  you  what  to  cry 
about.  There  goes  the  half-hour  !"  A  neighboring  clock  struck 
at  this  moment.  "  I  promised  to  be  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers 
at  eight  o'clock  precisely."  He  takes  down  his  cap,  and,  kiss- 
ing Souci  lightly  on  the  cheek,  disappears  down  the  stairs. 

The  poor  girl  tries  vainly  to  concentrate  her  attention  upon 
the  pattern  she  is  braiding  ;  the  stitches  go  wide  of  the  mark  : 
the  needle  runs  into  her  finger.  She  throws  the  work  on  the 
floor  and  tramples  on  it.  "/  hate  it !  that's  the  truth  ;  I 
hate  it !  Stitching,  stitching,  stitching !  it's  only  fit  for  a 
machine,  not  for  a  woman,  or  a  girl ;  not  for  me,  anyhow !" 
And  then  the  little  firebrand  seats  herself  in  the  window,  and, 
leaning  out,  watches  for  Tonio's  return  before  he  has  fairly 
disappeared  from  view.  She  sniffs  the  mignonette  and  the 
hyacinth  alternately  ;  she  hums  an  air  to  herself,  very  low,  lest 
she  may  attract  some  of  the  neighbors  to  seek  a  chat  with  her. 
She  wishes  to  be  alone  when  Tonio  returns ;  she  wishes  to  be 
alone  now,  to  think  about  everything.  "  How  glad  I  am  I  did 
not  give  up  altogether  singing  in  the  street !  how  lucky  that  I 
happened  to  be  in  the  Place  des  Terreaux  to-day !  Oh,  I  love 
you!"  she  murmurs,  turning  her  face  in  the  direction  of  the 
Place,  and  kissing  her  hand  towards  it.  "  Dear  Place  des  Ter- 
reaux !  I  shall  always  remember  you  with  pleasure !''  Here 
the  clock  of  the  Hotel-de-Ville  strikes  eight.  Souci  starts  to 
her  feet.  "  This  is  the  hour !  in  a  moment  they  will  speak 
together.  What  are  they  saying  now,  I  wonder  ?  Is  he  kind 
and  true  and  good  ?  Is  it,  after  all,  me  that  they  are  talking 
about  ?  I  did  not  see  him, — perhaps  he  never  heard  me  sing 
at  all, — and  Tonio  is  right !  Oh  !  poor  Tonio,  he  will  be  afraid 
to  tell  me  if  this  is  so  !" 

Thus  she  torments  herself,  pacing  up  and  down  the  narrow 
room,  until  she  is  weary ;  then,  creeping  back  into  the  window- 
seat,  she  glances  down  through  the  gloom  into  the  street.  It 
has  grown  too  dark  now  to  distinguish  any  one  so  far  below 
her;  she  is  therefore  considerably  startled  when  she  hears 
Tonio's  voice  at  her  elbow,  the  rumbling  of  vehicles  outside 


TONIO.  71 

having  drowned  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  on  the  floor.  He 
seems  quiet  and  grave,  perhaps  a  little  sad,  but  he  speaks 
firmly  and  decidedly. 

"  Put  on  your  hat,  Souci;  he  has  sent  me  back  for  you. 
The  gentleman  has  sent  for  you  ;  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you  ; 
don't  you  understand  ?" 

"  Then  it  is  me  after  att  I  He  has  heard  me  sing,  and — 
he  has  sent  for  me !"  exclaims  Souci,  joyfully,  snatching  up 
her  hat. 

"  Yes,  he  has  heard  you  sing,"  answers  Tonio,  shortly. 

Twenty  minutes  later  they  stand  in  Monsieur  Delacroix's 
sitting-room  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers. 

The  gentleman  is  writing.  "  Pray  be  seated,"  he  says,  in- 
dicating with  a  wave  of  his  hand  a  couple  of  chairs.  He 
folds,  seals,  and  addresses  his  letter.  Souci .  and  Tonio  sit 
down  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  gorgeous  crimson  velvet  arm- 
chairs. 

Presently  M.  Delacroix  draws  nearer  to  them,  and,  seating 
himself,  looks  kindly  at  Souci.  She,  returning  his  look,  finds 
herself  in  some  way  assured  that  this  man  is  true  and  good 
and  kindly. 

"  Have  you  told  her  ?"  he  addresses  Tonio. 

"  Nothing,  monsieur." 

"  That  is  well.  My  good  girl,"  turning  to  Souci,  "  it  was 
my  intention  to  leave  Lyons  to-night  for  Paris ;  indeed,  I  was 
en  route  to  the  station  when  I  was  arrested  by  hearing  your 
voice  on  the  Place  des  Terreaux.  I  have  had  some  conversa- 
tion with  your — companion, — and  I  have  determined  to  make 
you  a  proposal.  Your  voice,  though  superb,  is  lost  for  want 
,  of  cultivation.  I  am  willing  to  undertake  your  education  and 
the  proper  instruction  of  your  voice.  I  propose  to  prepare 
you  for  the  career  of  a  singer, — in  short,  for  the  lyric  stage. 
You  may,  if  you  are  patient  and  indefatigable,  one  day  achieve 
a  glorious  success, — a  triumph  such  as  you  have  never  dreamed 
of!  To-morrow  we  shall  start  for  Paris." 

Souci's  eyes  have  grown  larger  and  more  luminous  at  each 
word  as  it  fell  from  M.  Delacroix's  lips.  Her  awe,  her  timid- 
ity, vanish.  Springing  from  her  seat,  she  seizes  the  stranger's 
hand  and  presses  her  lips  upon  it.  "  Oh,  thank  you,  thank 
you,  sir  !  You  fill  me  with  joy  !  You  have  discovered  my 
secret  hope !  You  have  given  me  new  life !  Oh,  Touio, 


72  souci. 

speak  !  Thank  the  good  gentleman  who  will  teach  me  how  to 
be  a  great  singer  !  Oh,  thank  him  for  me  !"  Tears  are  on 
her  cheek, — tears  of  joy,  of  gratitude. 

Tonio's  face  is  strangely  sad  ;  to  all  her  excited  speech  he 
returns  no  word. 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  child,"  Delacroix  says,  earnestly,  af- 
fected himself  by  this  involuntary  outburst.  "  You  must 
learn  to  control  yourself.  You  do  not  look  very  strong.  The 
flame  within  will  consume  the  frail  vase  that  holds  it,  if  you 
are  not  careful.  See,  poor  child,  how  you  tremble  now  from 
over-excitement !" 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  murmurs  Souci,  in  a  mortified  tone. 

M.  Delacroix  smiles.     "  Then  you  accept?"  he  asks. 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur ;  we  accept,  do  we  not,  Tonio  ?" 

"  I  am  not  in  the  bargain,"  the  lad  answers,  gently. 

"What?  Not  in  the  bargain?  What  do  you  mean? 
Monsieur,  he  does  not  understand.  Tell  him,  please,  that  we 
are  to  go  with  you  to  Paris,  and — the  rest " 

llaoul  Delacroix  glances  keenly  at  Tonio.  "  Who  are  you  ?" 
he  asks.  "  Her  brother  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  No,  monsieur,"  interrupts  Souci,  eagerly,  "  he  is  not  my 
brother,  but  we  are  to  be  married  some  day, — in  a  year  or 
two, — is  it  not  so,  Tonio  ?" 

"  Married  !"  M.  Delacroix  reflects.  Souci  slips  her  hand 
into  Tonio's,  who  grasps  it  tightly. 

"  This  will  not  do ;  this  would  spoil  your  career.  You  are 
mere  children  ;  this  talk  of  marriage  is  ridiculous  !  How  old 
are  you?" 

"  I  am  sixteen,  sir,"  answers  Tonio,  a  little  stiffly. 

"  And  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know."      Souci's  eyes  flash  ominously. 

"  I  judge  you  to  be  little  over  fourteen,"  giving  her  a  scru- 
tinizing look.  "  Do  you  spend  every  day  in  the  streets  ?"  he 
asks,  pityingly. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  get  work  from  the  tailor.  I  sew  all  the  week 
excepting  one  day." 

"  You  sew !  Dleu !  and  with  that  voice !  Child,  you 
must  never  sew  again ;  there  is  nothing  so  ruinous  to  the 
chest.  Come,  be  sensible ;  I  cannot  take  you  both  with  me. 
This  lad  is  willing  to  separate  himself  from  you " 


TONIO.  73 

"  Tonio !  is  that  true  ?"  bursts  forth  Souci,  forgetting  polite- 
ness in  the  pain  these  last  words  inflict. 

There  is  no  reply. 

"  He  is  willing  to  part  with  you — for  a  time — for  your 
great  good "  continues  M.  Delacroix. 

"For  a  time?  For  what  time?  How  long?"  she  asks, 
sharply. 

"  For  a  few  years." 

An  hysterical  laugh  breaks  from  Souci's  lips.  "  A — few — 
years !"  she  echoes,  slowly.  "  Then,  sir,  if  he  is  willing — / 
am  not.  I  do  not  want  to  talk  any  more  ;  I  shall  not  go  to 
Paris ;  I  shall  not  be  educated ;  .1  shall  not  have  a  glorious 
career !  I  renounce  it  all.  I  thank  you, — but  I  shall  never 
leave  Tonio !" 

Her  face  is  white  as  marble  ;  her  eyes,  dilated  with  suffering, 
turn  wistfully  towards  the  lad,  whose  head  is  bowed  on  his 
breast. 

"  Souci,  you  are  wrong,"  he  murmurs.  "  Do  not  think  of 
me, — do  not  cast  away  this  chance  of  happiness  for  yourself. 
Souci,  we  shall  meet  again — some  future  day " 

"  Silence  /"  cries  the  girl,  almost  beside  herself.  "What 
can  you  think  me  ?"  Then  turning  to  Delacroix,  she  adds, 
piteously,  '•  Send  us  away,  monsieur ;  I  am  weary,  and  it 
grows  late." 

A  shade  of  something  akin  to  reverence  comes  into  Raoul's 
voice  as  he  rises,  and,  opening  the  door,  says,  gently,  "  Good- 
night, little  girl ;  you  carry  a  rare  jewel  in  your  bosom, — a 
loyal  heart.  Keep  it  pure  and  faithful  as  long  as  life  beats 
in  it.  Good-night."  And  they  pass  out  from  his  presence 
silently,  neither  of  them  able  to  articulate  even  an  adieu. 

Silently  they  walk  through  the  shadowy  streets  side  by 
side,  both  hearts  too  full  for  speech.  Silently  they  mount  the 
steep  staircase  to  the  topmost  floor.  As  Souci  draws  her  key 
from  her  pocket  and  unlocks  her  door,  Tonio  lays  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  arid,  in  a  husky  whisper,  says,  simply,  "  Kiss  me, 
Souci  ;  kiss  me  good-night,  Souciette  !" 

The  girl  hesitates, — a  slight  shiver  passes  over  her.  The 
thought  that  Tonio  had  been  willing  to  part  with  her  is  bitter 
within  her. 

"  I  cannot !"  she  says,  in  a  clear,  cold  tone  which  seems  to 
cut  him  like  a  knife, — :'  I  cannot ;  /  do  not  love  you  any 
D  1 


74  SOUCI. 

more  /"  And  she  passes  into  her  dark  little  room,  closing  the 
door  between  them  and  slipping  the  bolt  into  its  socket  with 
ostentatious  vehemence. 

For  one  moment  Tonio  stands  irresolute,  with  head  bowed 
against  the  cruel  door,  on  the  other  side  of  which  the  girl's 
face  is  pressed  as  yearningly ;  then,  with  a  powerful  effort, 
"  Good-night,  Souci !  good-night,  cherie  /"  he  whispers,  touch- 
ing with  his  lips  the  senseless  wood,  and  moves  slowly  away 
towards  his  own  humble  quarters  on  the  floor  below. 

He  is  not  surprised  to  find  a  light  shining  from  under  his 
door,  nor  to  discover  the  little  bootmaker,  Theophile,  awaiting 
his  return  with  eager  curiosity  and  kindly  interest  expressed 
in  every  feature. 

Late  into  the  night  the  two  sit  and  talk  earnestly  together ; 
so  late,  indeed,  that  Nanine,  the  good-humored  little  wife  of  M. 
Theophile,  waxes  almost  wroth  at  this  burning  of  the  midnight 
oil,  and  raps  against  the  wall  more  than  once,  hoping  to  break 
up  the  discussion. 

When  they  separate  at  last  with  a  hearty  grip  of  the  hand, 
Tonio's  face,  though  very  pale,  has  a  resolved,  heroic  look  upon 
it,  and  the  grotesque  features  of  the  good  tailor  are  twitching 
with  suppressed  emotion. 

Surely  among  the  celestial  recorders  of  noble  deeds  there 
is  one  who  takes  note  of  the  sacrifices  of  humble  hearts, — who 
writes  with  a  sunbeam  on  the  heavenly  scroll  the  names  of 
such  as — Tonio. 


TONIO.  75 


CHAPTER  III. 

AS  COMFORTABLE  A  COMPANION  AS  A  KEG!  OP  GUNPOWDER. 

"  Her  check  was  pale — but  resolved  and  high 
Was  the  word  of  her  lip  and  the  glance  of  her  eye." 

SIR  W.  SCOTT. 

.  .  .  .  "  Do  not  mock  me : 

Though  I  am  tame,  and  bred  up  with  my  wrongs, 
Which  are  my  foster-brothers,  I  may  leap, 
Like  a  hand-wolf,  into  my  natural  wildness, 
And  do  an  outrage.     Prithee  do  not  mock  me !" 

The  Maid's  Tragedy. 

THE  next  morning  Souci  springs  out  of  bed  with  a  smile  on 
her  lip,  and  dresses  herself  with  even  more  than  usual  care. 
Neatly  she  braids  and  twists  the  abundant  yellow  hair  in  close 
coils  about  her  head,  and,  bringing  forth  from  its  hiding-place 
a  fresh,  new  muslin  gown,  upon  which  she  has  worked  in  secret 
during  many  hours  stolen  from  the  night,  her  smile  deepens 
into  a  ripple  of  laughter  as  she  anticipates  Tonio's  delighted 
surprise  and  glowing  compliments  upon  her  appearance. 

Already  she  has  repented  of  her  coldness  towards  the  dear 
companion  of  so  many  years,  the  tender,  unselfish,  patient 
friend  whose  inexhaustible  love  has  proved  itself  beyond  the 
intrusion  of  a  doubt. 

"  He  will  be  so  humble  this  morning,"  Souci  says  to  her- 
self, as  she  ties  on  her  little  black  silk  apron  as  the  finishing 
touch  to  her  toilette, — "  so  humble,  and  a  little  melancholy  ; 
he  will  sigh  and  lean  his  head  on  his  hand  and  will  not  eat 
much  ;  and  I — I  shall  be,  at  first,  very  cold  and  distant ;  and 

then  when  I  see  how  really  unhappy  he  is, — then  perhaps 

Here  she  breaks  off  her  self-confession,  and  humming  a  bar  or 
two  of  a  song,  she  strips  every  blooming  bit  of  mignonette, 
every  stalk  of  hyacinth  she  can  find,  from  the  plants  on  the 
window-seat,  and,  arranging  them  with  artistic  grace  in  a 


76  souci. 

handleless  mug,  she  deposits  it  in  the  centre  of  the  table  on 
which  the  cloth  is  already  laid. 

"  He  shall  have  an  omelette  to-day,  poor  Tonio, — an  omelette 
with  kidney  in  it."  And  she  flies  down  the  stairs  to  the  first 
floor,  where  resides  the  tailor,  Monsieur  Pipelet,  who  furnishes 
her  with  work. 

Gliding  into  the  little  kitchen  behind  the  shop,  she  holds  a 
spirited  parley  with  the  cook,  and  in  exchange  for  a  small  piece 
of  money  she  procures  four  fresh  eggs  and  a  soup^on  of  kidney. 
In  five  minutes  the  omelette  is  smoking  on  the  table,  and  a 
delicious  aroma  of  coffee  fills  the  little  room.  Then  Souci 
grows  impatient.  "  Tonio  is  late  to-day, — perhaps,  though, 
he  did  not  sleep  last  night, — why,  surely  that  is  seven  o'clock 

striking!  The  omelette  will  be  quite  spoiled "  She  has 

taken  up  her  discarded  work  of  the  night  before,  hoping  by 
means  of  some  employment  to  curb  her  restless  impatience. 
Ten  minutes  pass ;  not  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
What  does  it  mean  ? 

Replacing  the  breakfast  on  the  stove,  Souci  rapidly  descends 
to  the  chamber  of  Nanine,  where  she  fancies  Tonio,  resenting 
her  unkindness,  may  be  found  breakfasting  with  M.  Theophile. 
The  door  is  locked  ;  the  key  hangs  on  a  nail  above  her  head. 
Turning  away,  she  glances  through  an  open  door  into  the  work- 
room ;  it  is  empty.  A  chill  feeling  of  desolation  creeps  over 
her.  "  Where  is  everybody  ?"  she  wonders  ;  and  then  she  turns 
the  knob  of  Tonio's  door,  after  having  knocked  timidly  and 
received  no  response.  His  little  room  also  is  empty  ;  the  bed 
has  not  been  used ;  a  candle  has  burnt  down  into  its  socket  in 
the  candlestick  on  his  table ;  the  pegs  upon  which  his  scanty 
wardrobe  hung  are  bare.  Souci  stands  petrified !  Presently 
the  thought  strikes  her  that  Tonio  has  resented  those  last 
cruel  words  she  had  spoken  to  him,  and  is  avenging  himself 
by  a  cruel  joke.  And  yet  it  is  unlike  him  ;  unlike  his  inva- 
riable, unselfish  forbearance,  his  ever-tender  avoidance  of  pain 
or  sorrow  for  her.  Returning  slowly  to  her  room,  the  girl 
glances  mournfully  at  her  carefully-prepared  breakfast-table 
drawn  close  to  the  window,  and  shudders  as  she  observes  a 
golden  bar  of  sunlight  falling  across  the  snowy  cloth  and 
dividing,  as  with  a  fiery  sword,  the  place  where  Tonio  was  wont 
to  sit  from  hers.  "  Shall  we  never  sit  here  together  again  ?" 
she  moans.  "  Oh,  Tonio,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel !"  Then 


TONIO.  77 

her  thoughts  grow  clearer,  and  she  is  ready  to  smile  at  her  first 
hopelessness ;  her  eyes  fall  upon  the  hat  she  had  worn  the 
previous  evening.  "  Ah  !  how  foolish  I  have  been !"  she 
exclaims,  starting  up  with  a  glow  of  joy  in  her  face.  "  He 
has  gone  off  the  first  thing  this  morning  to  see  the  gentleman 
at  the  Hotel  de  1'Univers.  Silly  Tonio !  he  will  offer  him- 
self as  a  servant  to  this  gentleman,  rather  than  allow  me  to 
be  deprived  of  the  chance  he  offers  me  !  But  he  shall  not : 
we  are  happier  as  we  are ;  and  so  I  shall  go  and  tell  them 
both !" 

******** 

"  Monsieur  Delacroix,  No.  38 ;  I  wish  to  see  him." 

The  concierge  rings  a  bell :  a  servant  appears.  "  A  message 
for  No.  38, — show  Mademoiselle  up,  and  in  form  Monsieur 
Delacroix." 

Souci's  heart  throbs  painfully  as  she  follows  the  gar^on  along 
the  corridor  leading  to  the  apartment  she  had  entered  so  joy- 
fully the  previous  evening.  The  servant's  knock  is  answered 
by  the  tranquil  face  of  Monsieur  Delacroix,  who,  with  a  faint 
gleam  of  surprise,  invites  her  to  enter,  and  offers  her  a  chair. 
A  pang  of  disappointment  shoots  through  Souci  as  she  glances 
around,  and  she  exclaims  instantly,  without  noticing  the  prof- 
fered seat,  "  Then  he  is  not  here,  after  all !  You  have  not 
seen  him, — you  cannot  tell  me  where  he  is?" 

"  First,  my  dear  child,  tell  me  who  lie  is,  that  I  may  be 
better  able  to  answer  you,"  M.  Delacroix  replies,  with  a  half- 
amused,  half-vexed  expression  in  his  face. 

"  Tonio  ! — has  he  not  been  here  this  morning  ?  Oh,  sir," 
drawing  nearer  to  him  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  piteous  en- 
treaty, "  if  you  know  where  he  is. — why  he  is  treating  me  so 
cruelly, — I  implore  you  to  tell  me!  He  is  all  I  have  in  the 
world;  we  are  everything  to  each  other;  do  not  part  us;  it 
would  kill  me  !  Do  not  listen  to  him  ;  he  does  not  mean  what 
he  says."  Tears  are  streaming  from  her  eyes  down  upon  the 
pure,  crisp  muslin ;  her  voice  is  broken  with  choking  sobs. 
Raoul  Delacroix  looks  at  her  amazed  ;  he  begins  to  regret 
having  allowed  this  child  to  interest  him  for  a  moment;  it 
seems  to  him  that  she  would  be  about  as  comfortable  a  com- 
panion as  a  keg  of  gunpowder.  He  takes  her  hand  kindly  and 
draws  her  over  to  the  sofa,  saying,  with  a  certain  sternness  in 
his  manner, — 

7* 


78  souci. 

"This  is  folly;  there  is  no  cause  for  these  tears  and  sobs. 
I  have  not  seen  or  spoken  to  your  friend  since  last  night, 
when  you  were  present ;  nor  have  I  the  slightest  intention  of 
separating  you  from  him.  All  that  is  over ;  I  was  satisfied 
with  your  decision,  and  shall  not  attempt  to  shake  it.  Now," 
the  sternness  melting  into  a  smile  of  infinite  sweetness,  "  are 
you  content,  my  good  girl,  and  a  little — a  very  little — ashamed 
of  your  suspicions  ?" 

Souci  dries  her  tears  hastily  and  tries  to  smile.  "  Oh,  sir, 
forgive  me  ;  I  was  very  wrong  to  come  and  disturb  you  with 
my  trouble,  but  people  have  always  been  cruel  to  me — always, 
— I  mean  strangers,"  as  a  remembrance  of  the  farm-house 
flashes  over  her, — "  and  I  could  not  help  doubting  you.  But 
I  must  go  now  ;  perhaps  Tonio  is  searching  for  me  as  I  did 
for  him  this  morning.  Ah,  would  not  that  be  droll  ?"  And 
she  laughs  a  little  nervously. 

At  this  instant  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Another  visitor!"  exclaims  M.  Delacroix,  slightly  ele- 
vating his  eyebrows,  and  desires  the  servant  to  admit  him. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  Touio,  come  to  upbraid  me  for  treacher- 
ously running  off  with  you,"  he  says,  smiling  at  Souci. 

"  Perhaps  !  Oh,  I  do  hope  it  is  !"  Her  eyes  shine  like  stars, 
her  lips  are  slightly  parted,  her  whole  attitude  expresses  joyful 
expectation. 

M.  Delacroix  watches  her  admiringly.  "  What  spirit  she 
has  !  what  verve  in  everything  she  does  !  How  unconscious, 
too,  she  seems  of  herself!"  His  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her  face, 
and  as  the  door  opens  he  does  not  turn ;  he  wishes  to  catch 
the  varying  expression  which  he  feels  sure  will  succeed  the 
entrance  of  the  visitor.  To  his  surprise,  he  sees  the  light 
suddenly  die  out  of  the  splendid  eyes,  the  lips  close  tightly 
in  a  stiff,  straight  line,  the  whole  figure  suddenly  relax  like  a 
bow  unstrung.  Never  has  he  witnessed  more  eloquence  in  a 
human  face.  It  startles  him,  and  he  turns  to  discover  its 
cause.  Bowing  and  scraping  inside  the  door  stands  the 
Punchinello-faced  bootmaker  Theophile,  gorgeously  attired 
in  his  Sunday  suit  of  broadcloth,  in  which  he  appears  to  even 
greater  disadvantage  than  in  his  leathern  apron. 

"Pardon!  mille  pnrdons,  monsieur!"  he  ejaculates,  as  M. 
Delacroix  advances  towards  him.  "  I  have  come  on  the  part 
of  my  friend, — Mam'selle's  friend,"  waving  towards  Souci, — 


TO.V/0.  79 

• 

"  who  is  a  noble  lad,  sir.  and  an  honor  to — to  anybody  he 
chooses  to  call  his  friend " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interrupts  Raoul,  glancing  at  the  clock  on  the 
chimney-piece,  "  that  is  all  true,  no  doubt ;  but,  my  good  man, 
I  start  for  Paris  by  the  9.30  train,  and — 1  have  not  yet  break- 
fasted." 

"  And  is  Mam'selle  to  accompany  you  ?"  asks  Thdophile, 
delightedly. 

"  No ;  she  has  refused  my  offer,  and  that  affair  is  settled." 

Tlu'ophile's  face  falls  visibly.  "  Then,  saprelotte  !  what  is  to 
become  of  her?  The  lad  has  gone, — I  saw  him  off  in  the 
train  at  five  o'clock  this  morning, — gone,  God  knows  whither  !" 

There  is  a  moment  of  profound  silence :  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  on  the  chimney-piece  is  distinctly  audible.  Then  Souci, 
moving  with  the  swift,  noiseless  glide  of  a  panther,  crosses  the 
room,  and  confronts  the  poor  little  man  who  has  made  such  a 
bungle  of  the  job  intrusted  to  him. 

"Traitor!  wretch!  devil!"  she  hisses  through  her  partly- 
closed  teeth,  "  how  dared  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this  thing? 
How  dared  you.  I  say  ! — how  dared  you  ?" 

She  looks  terrible  in  her  wrath  ;  but  the  valiant  little  man 
does  not  shrink.  "  We  talked  all  night  about  it,"  he  says, 
calmly ;  "  and  he  told  me  of  Monsieur's  proposal  to  make  a 
great  singer  of  you,  and  that  only  but  for  him  you  would  now 
be  on  your  way  to  Paris.  And  so  he  put  himself  out  of  your 
way  ;  for  he  said  as  how  this  gentleman  told  you  that  you  must 
never  sew  no  more ;  that  you  were  not  strong,  and  all  that 
about  the  fire  in  the  vase,  and  your  chest,  and  what  a  triumph 
you  would  come  to  have  some  day " 

"  All  right,  my  good  man ;  we  know  all  that.  Now  you 
sit  down  for  a  minute,  and  let  me  talk  to  this  poor  girl.5' 
Then  Raoul  goes  up  to  the  stricken  creature,  who  leans,  white 
and  wan,  against  a  table,  with  her  hands  pressed  tightly  over 
her  heart. 

"  Tonio  has  done  an  heroic  action  ;  you  should  glory  in  it !" 
are  his  first  words,  rightly  divining  how  to  arouse  her  best 
in -lings.  "  He  knew  what  was  best  for  you,  and  he  has 
proved  that  he  loves  you  better  than  himself.  You  will  live, 
perhaps,  to  thank  him  for  this  sacrifice.  In  the  mean  time, 
you  must  try  to  make  yourself  worthy  of  it  and  him.  lie, 
too,  will  rise.  Rest  assured  he  will  never  be  content  to 


80  SOUCL 

occupy  his  present  sphere;  there  is  nothing  ignoble  in  it, 
but  he  has  the  making  of  other  things  in  him.  So  have 
you.  God  has  bestowed  a  valuable  gift  upon  you  ;  you  must 
use  it  as  He  directs.  Perhaps  I  am  the  instrument  which 
has  been  chosen  to  help  you.  Will  you  not  let  me  do  so  ?" 

His  face  is  full  of  grave  and  gentle  feeling ;  his  voice,  low 
and  sweet,  finds  its  way  to  her  anguished  heart  as  no  other 
voice,  save  Tonio's,  has  ever  done. 

Into  the  hard,  tearless  eyes  bright  drops  begin  to  gather ; 
the  tight-drawn  lips  wax  tremulous.  No  sound  passes  them, 
however,  except  the  heavy,  quick-drawn  sighs  ;  the  tears  roll 
down  her  unconscious  face  and  drop  upon  the  clasped  hands. 

Presently  M.  Delacroix  speaks  again :  "  You  will  go  home 
now  ;  you  will  let  this  good  little  man  take  you  home,  and  you 
will  arrange  your  affairs  there  as  quickly  as  may  be.  I  shall 
postpone  leaving  Lyons  until  the  mid-day  train ;  at  a  quarter- 
before  twelve  I  shall  call  for  you.  Will  you  be  ready  then, 
or  must  I  say  evening?'' 

"  I  will  be  ready,  monsieur."  The  words  are  uttered  in  a 
flat  monotone. 

In  the  same  mechanical  way  she  walks  towards  the  door, 
opens  it,  and  traverses  the  corridor.  M.  Delacroix  signs  to 
The"ophile  to  follow  her,  and,  placing  four  or  five  napoleons 
in  his  hand,  desires  him  to  procure  what  is  necessary  for  her 
travelling  costume,  then,  with  a  kindly  smile,  bids  him  adieu. 

It  is  perhaps  not  surprising  that  Raoul  Delacroix  sits  down 
to  breakfast,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  without  that  sauce 
piquante  indispensable  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  meal,  viz.,  a 
good  appetite.  The  sole  au  gratin  seems  insipid  to  him  ;  the 
omelette  aux  fines  herLes  is  too  strongly  impregnated  with 
garlic ;  the  coffee,  strange  to  say,  is  simply  abominable ;  and 
when  he  falls  back  on  his  strawberries  and  claret  he  finds  the 
former  sour  and  the  latter  sourer. 

"  Bah  !"  he  exclaims,  pushing  his  chair  back  from  the  table 
impatiently,  "  one  can  never  get  anything  fit  to  eat  out  of 
Paris !" 


TONIO.  81 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  SAY   QOOD-BY,  SOUCI,  AND — KISS   ME  !" 

"  Ro  dear  I  love  him  that  with  him  all  deaths 
I  could  endure;  without  him,  live  no  life  !" — MILTON. 

NOT  one  word  does  Souci  vouchsafe  to  Tonio's  loyal  friend, 
as  he  shuffles  along  beside  her,  or  behind  her,  according  to  the 
space  allowed  him  on  the  narrow  pavement.  He  is  hurt  and 
grieved  to  the  core  of  his  honest  nature  by  the  fierce  wrath 
which  has  been  visited  upon  his  unlucky  head.  Steadfastly 
resolved,  however,  to  fulfil  to  the  letter  his  promises  made  to 
Tonio,  as  well  as  the  commission  intrusted  to  him  by  M.  De- 
lacroix, he  breathlessly  follows  Souci  when  she  dashes  up  the 
five  flights  of  stairs  leading  to  her  eyry.  With  Machiavelian 
acuteness  (as  he  thrusts  his  elbow  between  the  jamb  and  the 
closing  door)  he  exclaims,  "  I  have  a  message  for  you  from 
Tonio,  mam'selle, — a  message  and  a  parcel !"  and  thus  saves 
himself  from  a  crushed  bone  and  an  ignominious  dismissal. 

"  Come  in,"  she  says,  coldly ;  and  he  accepts  the  curt  invi- 
tation instantly. 

She  has  thrown  herself  down  on  the  window-seat,  without 
removing  her  hat,  and  is  staring  blankly  at  the  opposite  wall.§ 
He  stands  facing  her,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts.  For  his 
life  he  cannot  tell  what  to  say  first. 

"  Well  ?"  she  says,  haughtily,  with  a  withering  glance  at 
him.  "You  said  you  had  a  message  forme!  What  is  it  ? 
Tell  me  quickly,  and — go  !" 

The'ophile  is  astounded.  Can  this  be  the  kind-hearted, 
soft-mannered  girl  his  Nanine  admires  and  loves  so  fondly? 
Can  this  proud,  bitter-looking  woman,  with  her  airs  afgrande 
dame,  be  the  same  gentle-handed  creature  who  nursed  his  wife 
last  winter  through  that  dreadful  rheumatic  fever?  Oh.no, 
he  is  dreaming.  These  scornful  lips  and  eyes  cannot  belong 

D* 


82  souci. 

to  the  sweet,  blithe-hearted  maiden  who  had  sung  her  new  ballad 
for  him  but  two  days  ago !  Instinctively  his  hand  seeks  his 
cap  and  removes  it. 

"  Mam'selle,"  he  stammers,  "have  you  ever  thought  of 
what  would  happen  if  you  were  to  fall  ill  and  become  a 
burden,  a  helpless  burden,  upon  Tonio —  This  is  the 

speech  he  had  arranged,  and  he  stumbles  headlong  into  it. 

"How  is  that?"  she  flashes  out.  "A  burden  on  Tonio! 
Did  lie  say  this?" 

"  No,  no  ;  I  say  it.     I " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  you  say.  You  have  betrayed 
me  !  You  are  like  Judas  !  I  hate  you!" 

"  But — lie  said, — Tonio  said, — as  the  train  moved  off  with 
him,  'low  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Theophile;  be  so 

to  her,  to  my  little  Souci,  my  darling '  "    The  little  man's 

voice  quavers. 

A  low  moan  breaks  from  Souci's  lips. 
"He  said,"  goes  on  Thdophile,  recovering  himself,  "that 
you  were  always  dreaming  of  singing  in  the  Opera-House — of 

having  a  great  career — of  the  prince  who  was  to " 

"  Hush  !"  she  says,  faintly,  holding  up  her  hand. 
"  He  said,  '  When  1  am  gone,  go  to  the  Hotel  de  F  Univers 
and  ask  for  M.  Delacroix  ;  tell  him  all  that  I  told  you  last 
night,  and  pray  him  to  be  good  and  tender  to  my  Souci. 
Then  go  to  lier  and  say  these  words,'  " — here  Theophile  pauses 
an  instant  to  recall  exactly  the  message : — "  '  Tell  her  Tonio 
loves  her  better  than  his  life,  but  fie  is  a  poor  boy,  without  power 
of  any  sort;  he  can  do  nothing  for  her,  and  it  is  because  of 
that  he  leaves  her,  assured  that  it  is  for  the  best.  Tell  her 
Tonio  will  always  love  lier,  and  one  day  Souci  and  he  shall 
meet  again?  "  Like  a  well-conned  lesson  these  sentences  are 
uttered  by  the  faithful  little  bootmaker,  who  looks  considerably 
relieved  when  they  are  safely  delivered. 

The  girl  sits  motionless,  her  eyes  drooped  now  upon  the 
floor ;  so  white  and  still  is  she  that,  but  for  an  occasional  low 
moan,  one  might  fancy  her  asleep — or  dead. 

After  a  short  interval  she  looks  up  at  Theophile,  and  the 
dumb  anguish  in  her  eyes  frightens  him.  "  Come  here," 
she  says,  gently.  He  comes  close  to  her,  wondering  greatly. 
"  Where  is  he?  Don't  tell  me  a  lie,"  raising  her  hand  as  he 
is  about  to  speak ;  "  it  will  do  no  good.  Tell  me  only  where 


TONIO.  83 

he  is  gone. — From  what  station  did  he  start?  What  place 
was  the  ticket  taken  for?  You  were  with  him;  you  know! 
Oh,  tell  me/"  Her  voice  sinks  into  a  low  wail. 

Suddenly,  by  some  unwonted  intuitive  perception,  Theo- 
phile  becomes  aware  that  this  girl,  so  passionately  pleading 
with  him,  is  no  longer  a  child, — that  she  is  a  woman,  with  all 
a  woman's  intensity  of  feeling,  her  tenacity  of  purpose,  her 
deep  subtlety,  where  her  affections  are  concerned ;  that  this  is 
not  a  child's  futile  fretting  for  the  loss  of  a  pet  playmate,  but 
a  woman's  sore  grief  and  passionate  despair  !  A  mist  comes 
over  his  eyes ;  his  voice  fails  him.  She  looks  up  again  and 
reads  his  face  like  a  book.  "  You  can  tell  me  nothing ;  you 
know  nothing,  or  you  would  tell  me.  I  see  that  in  your  face. 
Now,  go!  I  want  to  be  alone  !"  And  forgetting  M.  Dela- 
croix's commission  he  obeys  the  imperative,  agonized  voice, 
and  goes  slowly  out  of  the  room. 

Immediately  the  door  is  bolted  against  all  intruders,  and 
when  Nanine  taps  at  it  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she  receives 
no  response,  and  is  obliged  to  go  sadly  away.  Souci  does  not 
hear  her,  for  she  has  crept  into  her  little  closet  where  her  bed 
stands,  and,  taking  down  Tonio's  violin,  which  hangs  beside 
her  tambourine,  she  covers  it  with  tears  and  kisses,  as  though 

it  were  a  living  thing,  and  so  keeps  her  heart  from  breaking. 
*  *  ***** 

In  the  mean  time,  Nanine,  under  Theophile's  instructions, 
has  trotted  forth  to  procure  suitable  apparel  for  the  young  girl 
who  is  to  start  in  a  few  hours  for  Paris.  With  all  her  sym- 
pathy for  her  friend's  trouble,  Nanine  cannot  repress  a  faint 
sigh  of  envy  as  she  reflects  upon  the  altered  prospects  of  the 
iittle  ouvriere.  ''  Suinte  Vierge!  just  to  think  of  it !  a  hun- 
dred francs,  all  at  once,  only  to  fit  her  out  for  the  journey  !" 
And  then,  with  a  true  woman's  instinctive  delight  in  spending 
money,  Nanine  goes  to  a  fashionable  shop  on  the  Place  Belle- 
Cour,  and  exercises  that  indigenous  good  taste  which  exists 
even  among  the  lower  classes  in  France.  Next  to  shopping 
for  herself,  a  woman  enjoys  shopping  for  other  people ;  and 
Xanine  enters  into  the  undertaking  with  energy  and  zest. 
Before  the  carriage  containing  M.  Delacroix  draws  up  to  the 
door,  she  has  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Souci  transformed  from 
one  of  the  neatest  and  jauntiest  of  grisettes  into  a  demurely- 
clad  and  unexceptiouably-genteel  young  lady.  Gloves,  boots, 


84  SOVCI. 

tournure,  veil,  all  are  en  regie,  and  the  white,  statuesque  face 
under  the  tasteful  bonnet  suits  admirably  its  new  setting. 

It  is  marvellous  how  far  a  native  can  stretch  a  hundred 
francs  in  those  beguiling  French  shops !  After  Naniue  has 
paid  at  the  caisse,  she  finds  she  has  enough  money  left  to  pur- 
chase a  small  travelling-bag.  Into  this  Souci  will  only  permit 
her  to  put  the  short  striped  petticoat  and  black  bodice,  making 
over  all  the  rest  of  her  belongings  to  the  good  little  woman, 
who  stands  aghast  at  such  reckless  prodigality.  Everything 
— furniture,  clothing,  kitchen-utensils — she  helps  to  transfer 
with  her  own  hands  to  the  little  room  below  ;  everything,  ex- 
cepting the  old  violin  and  tambourine,  of  which  she  makes  an 
unwieldy  brown-paper  parcel. 

"  Mam'selle,  you  are  too  good ;  you  are  taking  too  much 
trouble !"  remonstrates  M.  Theophile,  when  he  encounters  her 
on  the  staircase  with  her  arms  full  of  saucepans  and  china. 

"  Ah,  no,  M,  Theophile,"  she  answers,  quietly;  "  it  is  bet- 
ter that  I  should  have  this  to  do.  You  see,  I  have  half  an 
hour  yet ;  if  I  had  to  sit  still  and  wait,  I  am  afraid  I  would 
not  go  at  all." 

And  then,  taking  advantage  of  her  softened  mood,  he  had 
given  her  the  napoleons  M.  Delacroix  had  sent  her,  and  the 
packet  which  contained  the  half  of  Tonio's  savings.  From 
the  latter  she  deducted  the  amount  Nanine  had  disbursed  for 
her,  and,  having  set  down  the  articles  she  was  carrying  on  the 
landing,  she  turned  a  sorrowful  face  towards  Theophile,  and 
said,  softly, — 
f  "  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  rude  to  you  ;  forgive  me." 

"  Mam'selle "  he  began,  overwhelmed  by  this  contri- 
tion. 

"  Ah,  no !  not  marrfselle"  she  pleaded ;  "  say,  Good-ly, 
Souci,  and  kiss  me  !" 

And  the  Punchinello  face,  quivering  all  over,  bent  towards 
her  and  touched  her  lightly  on  both  cheeks. 


TON10.  85 


CHAPTER  V. 

"OH,  WHO   WOULD   BE   A   WOMAN?" 

"  Oh,  who  would  be  a  woman  ?  who  that  fool, 
A  weeping,  pining,  faithful,  loving  woman  ?" 

Love's  Pilgrimage. 

"  She  spake  not,  moved  not,  but  she  looked  the  more — 
As  if  her  heart  were  action,  speech,  and  feeling." 

"  Is  this  all?"  asks  M.  Delacroix,  as  he  deposits  the  brown- 
paper  parcel  and  the  little  travelling-bag  beside  Souci  in  the 
railway-carriage,  and,  receiving  a  nod  in  the  affirmative,  he 
follows  them.  The  whistle  sounds  shrilly,  and — they  arc  off. 

"Are  you  comfortable,  my  child?"  he  says,  with  a  kind 
smile,  leaning  forward  to  adjust  the  blind  so  that  the  sun  shall 
not  beam  directly  into  the  tear-brimmed  eyes. 

"  Ah,  don't  call  me  your  child!  I'm  nobody's  child, — • 
nobody's  !  I  belong  to  no  one  but  Tonio  !" 

These  words — the  first  she  has  uttered  to  him  since  the 
early  morning — burst  forth  irreprcssibly,  while  the  eyes  over- 
flow, and  for  a  few  minutes  she  sobs  bitterly.  When  she 
looks  up  again,  she  finds  her  companion  engrossed  in  the  peru- 
sal of  a  newspaper  which  he  has  spread  before  his  face,  and 
upon  glancing  through  the  window  she  sees  the  city  of  Lyons, 
where  she  has  passed  three  such  happy  years,  fading  away  in 
the  distance. 

Her  passionate  exclamation  has  jarred  harshly  upon  Raoul 
Delacroix's  sensitive  nerves.  Intrenched  behind  his  journal, 
he  seeks  resolutely  in  his  mind  some  plan  by  which  this  im- 
prtuoiis  young  creature  can  be  reduced  to  a  rational  bring. 
A  couple  of  hours  pass  heavily.  M.  Delacroix  has  discarded 
his  paper  screen,  and,  with  closed  eyes,  is  dropping  into  slum- 
ber. 

Monsieur!"     Souci,  grown  intolerably  lonely,  and  weary 
8 


86  SOUCL 

of  the  monotony  of  the  landscape,  ventures  timidly  to  break 
the  silence. 

"Mademoiselle?"  The  grave  eyes  are  open  now,  and  their 
owner  sits  erect. 

"  Where  is  my  sac  de  voyage,  monsieur?" 

He  rises,  and,  taking  it  from  the  compartment  above  her 
head,  hands  it  to  her. 

"  Merri!" 

She  opens  it  and  draws  forth  a  tiny  packet.  "  Void, 
monsieur ;  here  is  the  money  you  gave  M.  Theophile  for  me. 
I  did  not  require  it.  Tonio," — oh,  the  loving  pride  with  which 
she  speaks  that  name ! — "  Tonio  left  me  half  of  all  his  savings, 
and  so  I  paid  my  month's  rent,  and  Nanine  bought  these 
things  for  me, — and  there  is  some  left,"  she  adds,  proudly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  M.  Delacroix  says,  smiling  a  little  as  he 
thrusts  the  packet  in  his  vest-pocket.  "  I  am  sorry,  because 
I  hoped  that  I  might  do  everything  for  you,  and  now  you 
have  cheated  me  out  of  the  pleasure."  Encouraged  by  a  faint 
ghost  of  a  smile  which  flits  over  the  girl's  pale  face  at  this, 
he  continues:  "I  had  no  idea  I  was  running  away  with  an 
heiress !" 

But  the  smile  has  faded,  and  there  is  no  response. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  train  stops  at  a  station  for  refresh- 
ments. Souci  looks  up,  startled. 

"  Is  this  Paris  ?"  she  asks. 

"  No,  my — mademoiselle,  this  is  a  Iniffet,  where  I  shall  get 
you  a  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  coffee."  So  saying,  M.  Dela- 
croix descends,  enters  the  restaurant,  and  presently  reappears, 
carrying  a  little  of  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  upon, 
and  followed  by  a  gar^on  bearing  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee. 

Souci  has  not  yet  learned  that  a  person  suffering  from  emo- 
tional derangement  is  never  expected  to  eat,  being  supposed 
to  subsist  on  some  spiritual  manna  specially  provided  by  na- 
ture ;  therefore,  as  she  has  fasted  since  the  evening  before, 
she  brightens  up  a  little  at  the  sight  of  the  good  things  and 
gratefully  partakes  of  them. 

M.  Delacroix  is  enchanted.  "  She  is  not  sulky,  at  least," 
he  says  to  himself.  "  She  is  convalescing  rapidly.  By  the 
time  we  reach  Paris  she  will  be  chatting  and  quarrelling  like 
a  magpie." 

But  he  is  mistaken.     After  the  cravings  of  hunger  are 


TONIO.  87 

appeased  the  poor  girl  relapses  into  her  sad  musings,  and  the 
hours  glide  by  as  silently  as  hefbre.  She  is  •wondering  whether 
Tonio  has  stopped  at  a  buffet, — whether  he  too  has  been  re- 
freshed by  a  good  cup  of  coffee.  "  Ah  me,"  she  sighs,  "  how 
hard  he  used  to  beg  for  a  second  cup  from  me !  Oh,  Tonio, 
I  could  never  refuse  you  anything  now  !" 

After  a  while  she  falls  asleep  from  sheer  weariness,  and  M. 
Delacroix  covers  her  up  warmly  with  his  shawl  and  follows . 
her  example. 

When  the  train  stops  suddenly,  Souci  sits  up,  rubbing  her 
oys.  and  tries  in  vain  to  convince  herself  that  she  is  still 
dreaming.  No,  for  here  is  the  tall  figure  of  M.  Delacroix 
bending  over  her,  armed  with  umbrella,  wraps,  and  travelling- 
bags,  and  it  is  his  kind  voice  which  says,  "  Come,  mademoi- 
selle, we  have  arrived;  this  is  Paris."  And  then  she  stag- 
gers to  her  feet,  and,  feeling  dizzy  and  confused,  follows  him 
into  the  blinding  glare  of  the  waiting-room. 

A  few  moments  later  she  is  being  whirled  along  in  a  fiacre 
through  the  gayly-lighted  streets,  with  their  subdued  roar  of 
animated  life,  and  before  she  can  realize  anything,  finds  her- 
self mounting  a  staircase  behind  a  buxom,  ruddy-cheeked 
woman,  who  carries  a  lighted  candle  and  keeps  up  a  sprightly 
monologue,  directed  towards  M.  Delacroix,  bringing  up  the 
rear.  This  jolly  matron  is  Raoul's  foster-sister,  and  the  neat 
little  old  woman  with  a  face  like  a  dried  apple,  and  whose  old 
eyes  brighten  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  him,  was  one  of 
the  prettiest  Normandy  peasants  in  all  St.  Lo, — when  he  had 
rotrd.  some  forty  years  ago,  a  chubby  babe,  upon  her  bosom. 
She  has  received  his  telegram  and  letter  from  Lyons,  and 
all  is  prepared  for  the  reception  of  his  protegee. 

It  is  true  that,  even  as  she  covers  her  foster-son's  hand  with 
kisses,  Madame  Basselin  cannot  forbear  eying  the  young  girl 
with  a  comical  expression  of  surprise. 

"  The  child  is  shy  and  reserved,"  he  had  written  ;  "  be  as 
gentle  and  thoughtful  for  her  comfort  as  you  would  be  for 
Henriette.  Knowing  thy  good  heart,  I  need  only  say,  she  is 
an  orphan,  and  alone  in  the  world,  save  for  thee — and  me." 

"  Qnel  drole  de  farceur  qite  mon  Raoul!  elle  est  Lien  avancte, 
cet  enfant  /a/1'  she  smiles  to  herself. 

As  soon  as  they  are  left  alone  together  in  the  tiny  sitting- 
room. — Madame  Basselin  following  her  daughter  into  the 


88  SOUCI. 

kitchen  to  assist  in  the  important  ceremony  of  serving  supper 
to  their  "  well-beloved," — Raoul  approaches  the  collapsed  little 
figure  sitting  dejectedly  where  she  has  been  placed,  on  a  low 
chair,  with  her  head  bent,  and  her  hands  locked  tightly 
together. 

"  You  will  be  quite  comfortable  here,  Souci ;  these  women 
are  very  kind-hearted,  and  will  do  their  best  to  make  you 
happy,"  he  says,  in  his  low,  grave  voice,  as  he  watches  her  a 
little  anxiously. 

She  does  not  raise  her  head  or  change  her  position,  and 
only  answers  by  a  long,  shivering  sigh.  In  an  instant  Raoul 
is  down  on  one  knee  beside  her,  and  has  taken  a  cold,  listless 
liand  in  his,  pressing  it  kindly. 

"  You  are  tired,  and  a  little  stunned  yet,"  he  says,  "  by  the 
swift  journey  and  the  strange  faces;  and  hungry  too,  no  doubt. 
You  will  feel  bright  and  happy  to-morrow  after  a  good  night's 
sleep,  and  I  shall  come  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to  see 
how  you  have  fared." 

The  hand  he  holds  suddenly  withdraws  itself  from  his  clasp 
to  catch  his  wrist  with  a  frenzied  grip. 

"  Oh,  don't  leave  me,  monsieur !  don't  go  away  from  me 
to-night !  I  cannot  stay  here  alone, — I  cannot !  Oh  !  Tonio ! 
Tonio !"  And,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  sobs 
in  half-suppressed  gasps  which  are  pitiful  to  hear. 

Inwardly  a  little  impatient  of  this  unassuageable  grief,  out- 
wardly gentle  and  kindly  as  ever,  M.  Delacroix  strives  to  soothe 
and  comfort  the  aching  little  heart,  and  succeeds  only  after 
much  exercise  of  angelic  patience  and  pity  in  winning  from 
her,  as  she  dries  her  passionate  tears,  the  assertion  that — she 
does  not  care  whether  he  leaves  her  or  not ;  that  she  hopes 
she  will  never  see  him  again  ;  that  it  is  through  him  that  she 
has  been  separated  from  Tonio ;  and,  finally,  that  she  never 
will  forgive  him — never! 

"  However  this  little  caprice  of  mine  may  develop,"  ponders 
Raoul,  as  he  wends  his  way  towards  the  Rue  d'Antin,  "  of 
one  thing  I  am  tolerably  certain,  and  that  is,  that  one  cannot 
grasp  a  nettle  without  getting  one's  hands  severely  pricked, 
and  that  no  good  ever  came  of  grasping  a  nettle  that  I  ever 
heard  of.  That  child  is  a  perfect  little  heathen  !  She  has 
no  more  womanly  softness  about  her — no  more  instinct  of  grat- 
itude— than  a  young  tigress !  How  she  hates  me,  and  resents 


TONIO.  8d 

my  cruelty!  Cruelty?  Alas,  may  it  not  indeed  prove  cruelty 
in  the  end  ?  God  knows  !  Were  we  poor  mortals  but  gifted 
with  prescience,  what  numberless  quagmires  and  bogs  might 
we  avoid  stumbling  into  !  how  carefully  would  we  avoid  making 
pets  of  those  tiger  cubs  who  inevitably,  on  coming  to  their  full 
growth,  turn  and  rend  us !  Tiger  cub !  the  very  name  for 
her !  Pattes  de  velour  scarcely  hiding  les  grijfes  underneath ! 
With  her  lithe,  gliding  step,  and  her  sinuous  movements ;  her 
cruel,  lambent  eyes  with  their  slumberous  depths  to  throw  one 
off  one's  guard  !  Wicked  little  creature  !  Had  she  lived  in 
the  good  old  days  of  the  casting  out  of  devils,  I  fear  that 
glowing  spirit  of  hers  would  have  been  transferred  to  the  herd 
of  swine  that  ran  violently  down  the  steep  place  into  the  sea ; 
or  had  she  existed  in  the  bad  old  days  when  all  abnormal  or 
highly  emotional  organizations  were  denounced  as  witches,  she 
would  assuredly  have  endured  martyrdom  at  the  stake.  How- 
ever, fate  has  placed  her  some  centuries  later,  amid  the  en- 
lightened tolerance  of  modern  Christianity,  down  whose  'steep 
places'  one  may  glide  decorously,  hugging  one's  unexorcised 
demons  comfortably  without  molestation  ;  therefore  look  to  it, 
Raoul  Delacroix,  that  there  be  no  jagged  rocks,  no  treacherous 
landslide  that  may  precipitate  this  soul  with  which  you  have 
intermeddled,,  maimed  or  mutilated,  into  the  fathomless  sea — 
Eternity." 

And  with  this  solemn  admonition,  self-bestowed,  Raoul, 
having  entered  into  his  quarters,  bids  his  Artemis  a  lingering 
good-night,  and  seeks  the  repose  he  hopes  may  bring  him 
counsel. 


8* 


90  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"LASCIATE  OGNI  SPERANZA." 

.     .     .     "  I  am  too  unhappy 
"To  die;  as  some  too  way-worn  cannot  sleep." 

"  Love  give  me  strength  !  and  strength  shall  help  afford." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"  SHE  is  deplorably,  but  not  hopelessly,  ignorant,  my  dear 
Monsieur  Delacroix ;  no,  not  hopelessly.  I  always  say  whilst 
there  is  life  there  is  hope ;  and  there  seems  to  be  a  good  deal 
of  tough,  very  tough,  life  about  Mile.  Basselin."  Here  Mile. 
Julie  Coulons  smiles  a  little  maliciously,  and  smoothes  the 
wrinkles  out  of  the  black  lace  mittens  which  do  not  hide  her 
extremely  nervous  and  yellow  little  hands. 

"  She  is  still  homesick,  you  say ;  still  pining  and  sad "  be- 
gins Raoul,  wondering  in  his  soul  how  she  could  be  otherwise 
in  the  custody  of  the  cast-iron  little  woman  before  him. 

"  Sullen,  sir,  sullen.  As  yet  she  has  not  shown  either  a  dis- 
position to  study  or  a  desire  for  recreation.  She  walks  alone 
during  play-hours,  and  in  class  never  speaks  unless  obliged  to 
do  so.  She  is  un  pen  insupportable  ;  but  we  do  not  despair, 
monsieur ;  we  do  not  despair.  We  have  broken  in  spirits  as 
contumacious  as  Mile.  Basselin,  and  made  admirable,  accom- 
plished women  of  them.  Patience  and  perseverance  work 
wonders."  And  she  smiles  this  time  encouragingly. 

"  And  her  voice  ?  she  sings  occasionally,  when  she  is  alone  ?" 
"  Sings !  never,  sir !  We  do  not  permit  singing,  except 
during  the  lessons.  She  does  not  look  as  if  she  would  ever 
transgress  our  rules  in  this  respect.  She  seems  to  have  a 
detestation  for  music  of  all  kinds.  During  the  singing-class 
hour  she  sits  with  her  hands  over  her  ears,  as  if  she  were  de- 
mented ;  and  I  haVe  seen  her  shudder  and  turn  quite  white 
when  a  hurdy-gurdy  stopped  before  the  house.  One  day  there 
came  an  old  blind  fiddler,  who  had  been  attracted  by  the  voices 


TO.V70.  91 

of  the  young  ladies  in  the  play-ground,  and  hoped  to  get  a  few 
sous  from  them.  I  happened  to  be  present  at  the  time,  and 
Monsieur  may  imagine  my  consternation  when  I  saw  this  ex- 
traordinary girl  emerge  from  a  distant  shrubbery,  and,  walking 
rapidly  over  to  the  entrance-gate,  empty  her  purse  into  this 
vagabond's  hand  through  the  bars,  whilst  she  implored  him 
to  begone,  and  never,  never  to  come  and  play  there  again  !  I 
assure  you,  monsieur,  I  could  not  believe  my  eyes !  I  was 
obliged  to  order  her  into  the  house  and  set  her  a  task  to  mark 
my  disapprobation  of  such  eccentric  proceedings."  Here  Mile. 
Julie  bridles  self-approvingly. 

Monsieur  Delacroix  feels  as  if  he  would  like  to  shake  her. 

"  The  fiddler— did  he  return  ?"  he  asks. 

"  But  assuredly  !  He  comes  regularly  every  day  at  the  hour 
of  recreation,  and  this  is  the  signal  for  Mile.  Basselin  to  go 
off  alone  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  grounds,  and  tear  up 
and  down  there  like  a  young  tigress.  Ah  !  elle  est  incroyable, 
cette  jeune  fille  Id  .'"  A  sigh  emphasizes  this  ejaculation. 

Raoul  glances  at  his  watch  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness,  mademoiselle, — I  have  not 
much  time  left, — to  have  me  announced  to  Mile.  Basselin  ?  It 
may  be  possible  that  my  influence " 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Monsieur  Delacroix.  I  only 
trust  that  you  may  not  find  her  in  one  of  her  impracticable 
moods.  I  have  the  honor  to  salute  Monsieur !" 

And  with  a  sweeping  curtsy,  and  what  she  means  for  an 
entrancing  smile,  the  little  woman  vanishes.  The  instant  the 
door  is  closed,  Raoul  starts  up  from  the  stately  yellow  damask 
sofa  on  which  he  has  tried  in  vain  to  find  a  comfortable 
angle,  and  strides  up  and  down  the  perilously-waxed  floor. 

Two  windows  looking  upon  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore"  are 
hermetically  shuttered  and  shrouded  by  yellow  curtains;  two 
others  opening  upon  the  play-ground  let  in  a  discreetly-tem- 
pered glimpse  of  June  sunshine  and  the  subdued  twittering 
and  half-repressed  laughter  »f  a  score  of  French  girls,  who 
saunter  arm-in-arm  through  the  winding  gravel-walks  or 
gather  in  groups  under  the  shade  of  the  grand  old  trees.  One 
or  two  directly  beneath  him  cast  furtive,  mischievous  glances 
up  at  the  window  against  which  Raoul  leans,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  a  solitary  figure  walking  with  folded  arms  in  the 
most  deserted  portion  of  the  grounds. 


92  SOUCL 

It  is  too  far  for  him  to  recognize  her,  but  Raoul  feels  morally 
certain  that  in  this  desolate-looking  object  he  sees  the  unrea- 
sonable little  being  who  has  vexed  his  soul  during  the  last 
fortnight  more  than  he  likes  to  acknowledge,  even  to  himself. 
"  Poor  little  Pariah  !"  he  murmurs,  as  he  observes  the  start 
with  which  she  perceives  the  approach  of  an  under-teacher, 
and  the  proudly-lifted  head  when  she  receives  her  command 
to  return  to  the  house  immediately,  change  her  pinafore,  and 
betake  herself  to  the  salon.  Raoul  wishes  he  was  close  enough 
to  discover  whether  there  is  the  faintest  gleam  of  pleasure 
softening  the  great  gray  eyes,  or  the  slightest  quiver  of  excite- 
ment about  the  sad,  drooped  lips,  as  the  announcement  of  his 
visit  is  made  to  her.  He  rather  thinks  there  has  not  been ; 
for,  as  she  draws  nearer,  the  teacher  is  evidently  urging  her  to 
hasten  her  steps,  which  injunction  she  ignores  completely, 
moving  languidly  and  with  apparent  reluctance  towards  the 
house.  Monsieur  Delacroix  feels  like  a  man  who,  having 
caught  a  wild  forest-bird  and  caged  it,  is  now  obliged  to  watch 
it  beat  itself  to  death  against  the  bars.  This  is  not  a  pleas- 
urable exhibition  certainly,  and  the  prospect  fills  him  with 
a  fierce  impatience  against  himself,  his  rash  undertaking,  and 
the  helpless  bird  it  is  now  impossible  to  restore  to  freedom. 
He  smiles  a  little  bitterly  as  Talleyrand's  cynical  conclusion, 
"  to  guard  oneself  in  future  from  generous  impulses,  because 
they  are  generally  the  best,"  recurs  to  him ;  and,  absorbed  in 
reflection,  he  does  not  hear  the  opening  or  closing  of  the  door. 

How  long  Souci  might  have  stood  unnoticed  is  uncertain, — 
for  Raoul  Delacroix  is  much  given  to  losing  himself  in  revery, 
— had  not  a  quick,  petulant  sigh  broken  from  her  lips.  At  that 
sound  he  turns  quickly,  and,  walking  towards  her  with  out- 
stretched hand,  says,  with^his  winning  smile,  "  Good-morning, 
mademoiselle.  I  did  not  hear  you  come  in.  Did  you  enter 
through  the  key-hole,  fairy-fashion  ?"  There  is  no  response 
to  this  sally.  Raoul  folds  his  arms.  She  is  standing  just  in- 
side the  door,  with  her  head  a  little  bent  and  her  arms  hanging 
straight  down.  She  wears  the  class-uniform, — a  dark  navy- 
blue  flannel,  made  with  scant  skirt  and  ill-fitting  body.  To 
Souci  the  class-uniform  is  not  becoming.  Raoul  thinks  he 
has  never  seen  her  look  so  sallow,  so  unchildlikerso  ugly,  be- 
fore. He  wishes  with  all  his  heart  he  had  not  stopped  over- 
night in  Lyons. 


TOXIO.  93 

Mile.  Julie  Coulons's  last  injunctions  had  been  delivered  in 
the  corridor:  "  Be  sure  to  curtsy  on  entering  and  on  leaving 
the  salon;  so," — here  the  lady  performs  one  of  her  most  elab- 
orate, style  de  Tundi-n  n'yime; — "  do  not  forget  to  inquire  for 
the  health  of  Monsieur  and  his  family,  and  to  assure  him  of 
your  determination  to  profit  by  the  immense  advantages  offered 
by  our  establishment,"  etc. 

Whether  Souci  heard  these  instructions  at  all  is  doubtful ; 
she  certainly  does  not  follow  them.  Silent,  motionless  as  a 
statue,  she  stands,  heedless  of  Monsieur  Delacroix's  kindly 
greeting  and  proffered  hand. 

"  Will  you  not  come  and  sit  by  the.  window  with  me  ?  I 
have  but  a  short  time  to  remain,  and  I  have  some  questions 
to  ask  you,"  he  says,  after  a  moment. 

"  What  questions?"  she  asks,  without  offering  to  move  or 
raising  her  eyes. 

"  First,  are  you  unhappy  here  ?    Are  they  not  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes,  I  suppose  they  are  kind."  Her  voice 
is  dull  and  monotonous ;  there  are  no  changing  tones  in  it. 

"You  have  nothing  to  complain  of?  You  are  perfectly 
comfortable  ?" 

She  bends  her  head. 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  not  try  to  study, — to  learn  something? 
It  will  be  like  entering  a  great,  new,  beautiful  world  to  you 
when  you  shall  be  able  to  read  books.  Listen,  Souci :  I  am 
like  you,  alone  in  the  world  ;  I  have  neither  parents,  brothers, 
sisters,  nor  near  friends ;  but  I  have  books,  and  in  them  I  find 
the  dearest,  closest  companionship.  They  are  my  friends,  my 
comforters,  my  pleasures  ;  they  never  weary,  never  deal  treach- 
erously with  me,  never  forsake  me "  He  stops  abruptly  ; 

a  shudder  had  passed  over  the  girl's  frame  at  his  last  words. 
"  The  world  is  a  very  barren  world  to  me  too,  Souci,"  he  con- 
tinues. "  I  do  not  know  how  I  should  be  able  to  live  in  it 
were  it  not  for  my  books  and  my  music.  Have  you  seen 
Signore  Valdini  yet?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  seen  him." 

"And  you  sang  for  him?  What  did  he  say?"  demands 
llauul,  eagerly. 

"I  did  not  sing;  /  shall  never  sniff  again."  This  is  said 
in  a  tone  of  quiet  determination.  Ilaoul  bites  his  lip  to  repress 
an  impatient  exclamation. 


94  SOUCI. 

"  Souci,  I  should  prefer  to  sit  down :  will  you  not  take  a 
chair  ?"  he  says,  gently,  drawing  one  of  the  orange-hued  fau- 
teuils  towards  her,  and  seating  himself  in  another. 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  she  says,  coming  closer  to  him  and  speak- 
ing in  the  same  dull  voice  ;  "  I  do  not  want  to  sit  down.  Have 
you  any  other  questions  to  ask  me,  or — may  I  go  ?" 

"  No,  you  may  not  go,  and  you  must  listen  to  me.  If  you 
prefer  to  do  so  standing,  I  have  no  objection ;  but  I  think  it 
is  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  you  are  behaving  very  badly,  and 
that  Tonio,  did  he  know  of  it,  would  agree  with  me.  You 
have  wasted  an  entire  fortnight  of  valuable  time  ;  you  are 
throwing  away  the  chance  of  one  day  meeting  Tonio  again. 
He  will  rise;  he  will  become  educated,  accomplished, — hold  a 
position  in  society ;  whilst  you  will  sink  into  the  lowest  rank 
of  ignorant  outcasts.  For,  after  a  certain  term,  I  shall  give 
you  up,  unless  I  see  that  you  are  trying  to  give  yourself  a 

chance "  At  this  instant  a  great  tear  which  had  trembled 

indecisively  on  Souci's  long  lashes  falls  with  a  splash  on  the 
yellow  damask  arm  of  M.  Delacroix's  chair.  Raoul,  without 
raising  his  eyes,  goes  on  steadily :  "  This  school  is  pronounced 
one  of  the  best  in  Paris ;  Signore  Valdini  has  consented  to  un- 
dertake the  training  of  your  voice  ;  I  have  done  the  very  best  I 
can  for  you ;  it  rests  with  you  now  to  repay  me  by  your  effort 
to  improve,  or  to  show  me  that  I  have  been  a  fool."  No  other 
tear  has  followed  that  first  one,  but  the  bib  of  Souci's  holland 
apron  is  saturated. 

"  I  will  try," — the  words  are  scarcely  audible, — "  I  will  try, 
monsieur,  to  be  like  Tonio  ;  to  study,  to  become  educated  ;  he 
shall  not  be  ashamed  of  me  !  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead!" 

"  Souci,  my  good  girl,  you  must  not  think  me  harsh  and 
unfeeling.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry  for  you,  but  I  must  help 
you  to  grow  a  noble,  strong-hearted  woman, — a  woman  that 
Tonio  would  glory  in." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?"  she  cries,  dashing  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  impetuously.  "  There  is  nothing,  no  labor,  no 
trouble,  that  I  would  not  accept  joyfully  if  I  thought  that  one 
day  you  would  restore  Tonio  to  me  ;  that  you  would  take  me 
back  and  leave  me,  poor,  friendless,  unknown,  in  my  garret  at 
Lyons  with  him !  See,  monsieur," — here  she  draws  up  the 
narrow  sleeve  of  her  sad- colored  gown  and  shows  him  the 
emaciated  arm  within  it, — "  see,  monsieur,  I  have  been  trying 


TOXIO.  95 

to  die.  Ah,  God  !  it  is  those  who  wish  to  die  who  cannot.  I 
think  !  I  cannot  eat,  I  cannot  sleep,  or,  if  I  do,  I  dream — such 
sad  dreams  !  But,  if  you  say  that  you  will  find  Tonio  ;  that 

one  day  I  shall  meet  him  again "  She  does  not  complete 

her  sentence :  there  is  no  need.  The  rapturous  smile  in  the 
eyes,  on  the  lips,  the  proud  lifting  of  the  head,  and  the  sudden 
rekindling  of  life  and  energy  throughout  the  drooping  figure, 
are  eloquent  enough. 

M.  Delacroix  extends  his  hand  impulsively.  "  It  is  a  com- 
pact !''  he  says,  holding  hers  firmly  and  speaking  in  grave 
tones.  "  You  shall  do  your  utmost  to  attain  the  object  for 
which  you  are  placed  here,  and  I  shall  take  every  possible 
means  to  discover  Tonio.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

To  his  consternation,  the  girl  sinks  down  upon  her  knees, 
and,  with  a  frantic  mingling  of  tears  and  hysterical  laughter, 
kisses  over  and  over  the  long  brown  hands  on  which  no  woman's 
lips,  save  his  mother's,  had  ever  rested. 

A  rush  of  contending  emotions,  not  altogether  painful  per- 
haps, checks  the  remonstrance  which,  after  a  moment,  Raoul 
feds  compelled  to  urge  against  this  rash  impetuosity,  this 
reckless  want  of  self-control. 

"  Education  of  the  head  will  not  suffice,  mademoiselle,"  he 
says,  raising  her  gently  to  her  feet.  "  There  must  be  moral 
discipline  as  well ;  do  you  know  what  that  means  ?"  There  is 
a  curious  twinkle  in  his  dark  eyas  now. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know  !"  she  replies,  contemptuously.  "  It  is  to 
stand  and  sit  as  straight  as  a  stick,  and,  if  one  cannot  do  it 
naturally,  one  can  learn  it  with  a  back-board  strapped  under 
one's  arms ;  it  is  to  smile  when  one  feels  like  weeping,  and  to 
laugh  out  aloud  when  one  feels  like  cursing ;  it  is  to  say, 
'  I'nriJon,  madame]  when  one's  fingers  tingle  to  box  some- 
body's ears;  it  is  to  kiss  a  girl  on  both  cheeks  while  one  trios 
the  quality  of  her  gown  betwixt  one's  finger  and  thumb,  and, 
the  moment  her  back  is  turned,  call  it  a  miserable' rag;  it  is 
to  curtsy  profoundly  when  the  teachers  enter  the  room,  and 
make  grimaces  at  them  behind  one's  book ;  it  is  to  eat  very 
little  before  people,  and  to  be  a  glutton  in  the  dormitory ;  it 
is — ah,  I  know;  I  have  seen  enough  of  it  in  these  two  end- 
less weeks, — of  the  sweet  lying,  and  smiling  deceit,  and  treach- 
erous politeness  !  Bah  !  Tonio  would  not  glon/  in  //icse.  /" 

"  No,"  assents  llaoul,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself;  "  nor  is 


96  SOVCI. 

it  desirable  to  learn  all  these  things ;  but  you  will  soon  be  a 
woman,  Souci, — it  appears  to  me  you  have  grown  during  this 
last  fortnight, — and  a  woman  lien  elevee  does  not  throw  her- 
self on  her  knees  in  a  salon  or — or — kiss  a  man's  hand — 
anywhere.''  The  girl  listens  with  bent  head  and  a  sudden 
flush  dyeing  the  sallow  cheek,  but  her  lips  are  still  curved  in 
the  scornful  smile  with  which  she  had  spoken  last.  "  I  only 
ask  you  to  learn  as  fast  as  possible  to  read  and  write  correctly, 
and  to  observe  carefully  all  Signore  Valdini's " 

"  Ah !"  she  raises  one  hand  appealingly,  "  I  am  afraid  I 
cannot  sing,  monsieur  !  I  am  sorry, — but — it  hurts  me  so  ! 
it  makes  me  cry  even  to  think  of  singing !" 

Raoul  thinks  her  tragic  manner  a  little  affected. 

"  Then  we  shall  wait  for  that.  I  will  speak  to  Valdini  my- 
self. You  shall  not  sing  until  you  long  to  do  so ;  the  rest  will 
be  beneficial  to  you.  And-  now" — M.  Delacroix  glances  at  his 
watch,  and  finds  that  he  has  overstayed  his  appointment  by  ten 
minutes — "  I  must  leave  you,  Souci ;  and  I  can  do  so  feeling 
that  you  will  keep  your  promise  faithfully — for  Tonios  sake. 
How  proud  he  will  be  of  you  some  day !  Good-by,  little 
girl;  you  will  be  happier  now." 

"  1  trust  you  /"  is  all  she  says  ;  and,  after  one  grasp  of  the 
hand,  Raoul  goes,  rather  relieved  that  the  dreaded  visit  has 
ended  so  pacifically. 

Souci  flies  up  to  the  dormitory  after  M.  Delacroix  has  left 
her,  entirely  regardless  of  the  rules  proscribing  that  portion  of 
the  house  during  the  day.  In  a  recess,  curtained  off,  stands  a 
formidable  collection  of  boxes  and  portmanteaux, — little  and 
big,  battered  and  new  ;  some  covered  all  over  with  the  names 
of  towns  and  cities  they  have  passed  en  route  to  the  great 
capital,  others  bright  and  fresh  and  clean,  never  having 
gone  beyond  the  barrieres  of  the  city  where  they  were  made. 
Souci  passes  the  interesting,  scarred  veterans  without  a  glance, 
and,  kneeling  down  before  one  of  the  neatest  and  newest  of  the 
untravelled  ones,  she  proceeds  to  dash  out  of  it,  pell-mell,  the 
neatly-packed  clothing  within.  Then,  drawing  from  its  depths 
an  old,  shabby  violin,  and  sitting  flat  down  on  the  floor,  she 
gazes  at  it  mournfully,  and  presses  her  lips  to  it  again  and 
again,  holding  it  tenderly  as  a  mother  her  first  babe, — "  I  shall 
make  myself  icorthy  of  you,  Tonio,  my  iccll-beloved  ;  I  swear 
it !"  she  says  softly  to  herself. 


BOOK  III. 

VIOLA. 
CHAPTER    I. 

A   HOLIDAY   IN   VOGOGNA. 

"  In  the  valley  the  tiny  bells 

Hear  the  rustling  of  the  brook; 
The  rushing  of  the  wind  it  tells 

Dying  in  the  forest  nook." — VON  Ceizr. 

"  And  old  and  young  came  out  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday."  .... 

MILTOH. 

"  A  priest  went  strolling  through  the  land; 

Hey  !  'twas  in  the  May  ! 
He  caught  a  young  nun  by  the  hand ; 
Hty  !  'twas  in  the  May,  they  say, 
Hey  !  'twas  in  the  May  !" — Flemish  Song. 

IT  is  May,  and  a  fete-day  in  Vogogna. 

Tliis  primitive  hamlet — not  unpicturesque  in  its  rustic 
homeliness — lies  in  the  luxuriant,  flower-decked  Val  d'An- 
zasca  like  an  humble  cairngorm-pebble  set  about  with  gems 
of  every  hue. 

Looking  down  from  the  Alpine  heights  above  upon  the 
sweep  of  emerald  turf,  crossed  by  silvery  trout-streams  and 
studded  all  over  with  the  pink-  and  purple-rhododendron,  the 
dazzled  eye  rests  with  relief  upon  the  quaint  little  brown 
patch  lying  at  the  mouth  of  this  Happy  Valley. 

Vogogna  boasts  a  posting- station  and  a — patron  saint.  The 
former  brings  its  inhabitants  a  very  occasional  whiff  of  the 
outer  air — beyond  the  Alps, — the  latter  supplies  them  with  a 
yearly  holiday  on  each  anniversary  of  his  nntn-dn-fe,  and  so 
win.-  tor  himself  their  ceaseless  gratitude  for  a  martyrdom 
which  hud  perhaps  little  voluntary  self-abnegation  to  glorify  it. 
K  9  97 


98  SOVCI. 

High  mass  has  been  performed  in  the  little  lichen-roofed 
chapel  this  morning, — an  unwonted  prodigality  of  repast  has 
succeeded  it, — and  now  the  villagers  are  spreading  themselves 
far  and  wide  out-of-doors,  their  festive  array  forming  pretty 
bits  of  color  in  the  bright  sunshine.  The  more  energetic 
among  them  saunter  along  the  streams  angling  for  trout,  or 
gather  wild  flowers  wherewith  to  deck  the  maidens  of  their 
choice ;  others  prefer  a  lazy  far  niente,  stretched  on  the  warm 
moss  carpet,  staring  up  into  the  fleckless  ether. 

A  little  apart  from  the  rest  stroll  two  figures,  each  remark- 
able in  its  way.  A  tall,  slight  man,  with  a  stoop  in  his  shoul- 
ders, a  pale,  irregular-featured  face,  and  eyes  of  a  limpid  blue, 
with  the  touching  wistfulness  of  a  child  in  their  expression, 
— a  child  in  whom  a  sense  is  defective.  His  head  is  un- 
covered, and  his  long,  fair  hair,  streaked  with  gray,  falls 
waving  upon  his  shoulders.  At  this  moment  his  lips  wear  a 
peculiar  smile,  and  his  gaze  is  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  peak 
of  Monte  Rosa  in  the  distance,  whilst  he  caresses  with  his 
bow  a  violin,  black  from  age,  upon  which  his  chin  rests 
lovingly. 

Beside  him  walks  demurely  a  girl,  whose  hands  are  filled  to 
overflowing  with  wild  flowers,  but  whose  eyes  and  ears  are  ab- 
sorbed by  watching  him  and  drinking  in  the  exquisite  strains 
of  his  instrument. 

The  Vogonese  had  long  ago  concurred  in  the  opinion  that 
Heinrich  Hablemann  was  mad,  and,  excepting  on  those  occa- 
sions when  his  musical  talent  could  be  utilized  in  their  village 
dances,  he  was  shunned  by  the  neighbors,  who  looked  askance 
upon  all  that  was  unintelligible  to  their  dim  understandings. 
They  resented,  also,  the  fact  that  he  was  a  foreigner,  a  German, 
who  had  transplanted  himself,  his  mother,  and  his  infant  daugh- 
ter to  this  obscure  Swiss-Italian  village  for  reasons  lest  known 
to  himself  and  which  these  inquisitive  peasants  had  failed  to 
discover.  They  had  discussed  the  question  privately  and  pub- 
licly ;  they  had  wheedled,  threatened,  and  manosuvred  in  vain 
to  draw  a  solution  of  the  mystery  from  the  old  Frau  Hable- 
mann, who  did  not  hesitate  to  bid  them  go  about  their  busi- 
ness in  her  rough  gutturals ;  and  from  the  placid  Heinrich, 
who  shielded  himself  behind  an  impenetrable  courtesy,  and, 
when  they  grew  importunate,  would  draw  forth  his  violin  and 
smilingly  lose  himself  in  a  musical  revery. 


VIOLA.  99 

During  twelve  years  had  these  three  Germans  occupied 
their  little  cottage,  with  its  bit  of  flower-garden  in  front  and  its 
long,  carefully-cultivated  kitchen-patch  behind.  They  must 
have  had  money,  for  Herr  Hiiblernann,  with'  the  exception  of 
tying  up  a  rose-bush  occasionally — he  was  passionately  fond 
of  flowers,  and  something  of  a  botanist — or  gathering  a 
basket  of  apricots,  never  was  known  to  do  anything  useful  or 
laborious.  His  hands — long,  slender,  musical  hands — were 
white  as  any  gentleman's,  and  he  was  rarely  seen  without  a 
sheet  of  music  or  his  beloved  instrument  under  his  aim. 

Next  to  his  violin  he  worshipped  his  little  daughter,  who 
looked  upon  him  with  a  tender,  protecting  love,  preferring  his 
companionship  to  that  of  children  of  her  own  age,  supremely 
happy  in  her  absolute  devotion. 

The  exquisite  beauty  of  this  child,  her  sunny  temper  and 
winning  ways,  had  made  her  a  sort  of  idol  among  the  villagers, 
who  were  never  weary  of  inventing  legendary  accounts  of  her 
origin  and  parentage.  They  did  not  hesitate  to  assert  that 
such  a  fair  blossom  never  came  of  such  uncouth  stock, — Frau 
Hablemann  excelling  her  son  in  homeliness.  In  short,  she 
was  undoubtedly  a  gift-child, — nothing  being  more  elastic 
than  the  superstition  of  the  Italian  peasants, — and  had  fallen 
from  heaven  into  the  lap  of  this  hideous  old  Frau !  Dio  ! 
what  a  strange  freak  of  heaven,  when  there  were  so  many 
ruddy-cheeked,  glowing-eyed  young  matrons  to  be  found  with 
empty  knees !  This  incongruity  with  her  surroundings  only 
served  to  render  the  snowy-skinned,  azure-eyed  babe  more 
dazzling  to  the  eyes  of  the  peasant-women  who  gazed  half  fear- 
fully upon  her  dimpled  loveliness,  and  brought  their  own  olive- 
skimud,  dusky-haired  bairns  to  catch  a  reflection  from  the 
aureole  which  seemed  to  radiate  from  that  gold-flossed  head. 

Herr  Hablemann  and  his  mother  had  never  mastered  the 
Italian  language,  nor  did  they  desire  to  do  so.  They  were 
neither  of  them  of  a  loquacious  habit,  and  were  eminently 
unsociable  with  their  neighbors.  The  Frau  rarely  stepped 
over  the  threshold  of  her  cottage,  unless  sent  for  in  dire  emer- 
gency to  some  sick-bed  in  the  village, — for  she  was  skilled  in 
herbs,  and  accomplished  wondrous  cures, — and  few  visitors 
ever  troubled  her.  They  kept  no  servants,  and  never  entered 
the  little  chapel.  Being  Lutherans,  they  were  debarred  even 
from  the  spiritual  consolation  of  priestly  visits.  Between  this 


100  SOUCI. 

silent,  rugged  pair  the  girl  grew  up, — a  sunbeam,  warm,  bright, 
untarnished,  from  the  hand  of  God ;  sportive,  gay,  and  inno- 
cent as  any  humming-bird  ;  prattling  German  and  Italian  with 
equal  facility ;  taught  all  household  tasks,  fine  needle-work, 
and  rare  lace-making  by  the  old  grandmother, — in  all  else 
ignorant  as  a  cowslip. 

A  week  ago  to-day  Frau  Hiiblemann  had  awakened  her 
with  a  kiss  upon  the  eyelids,  saying,  when  the  child  sprang 
up  startled  by  the  unwonted  caress,  "It  is  thy  birthday, 
Liebchen  ;  thou  art  twelve  years  old  to-day  !"  And  then  she 
showed  her  a  fine  new  bodice,  all  braided  and  embroidered  by 
her  own  ingenious  old  fingers,  and  a  striped  skirt  and  snowy 
chemisette,  which  completed  the  peasant  costume  the  child 
always  wore. 

"  I  shall  wear  it  to-day  for  the  fete !"  she  cries,  springing 
joyfully  out  of  bed  on  this  bright  May  morning.  An  hour 
later  she  descends  in  all  her  bravery,  and  proceeds  to  survey 
herself  from  head  to  foot,  as  she  stands  on  a  chair  before  the 
old-fashioned  mirror. 

A  lovely  picture  looks  out  from  that  worm-eaten  frame, 
but  Liebchen  steps  down  from  the  inspection  free  from  the 
faintest  sensation  of  gratified  vanity.  She  knows  she  is  beau- 
tiful only  as  a  lily  knows  it  when  it  sees  itself  reflected  in  the 
limpid  stream.  , 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  DIE   VERGISSMEINNICHT." 

"•Son  violon  ne  le  quittait  pas.     Pour  so  reposcr— il  jouait  du  violon  • 
pour  se  remettre  en  verve — il  en  jouait  encore." — BAMBOCHE. 

VESPERS  are  over,  and  the  dancing  has  begun  on  the  green. 
It  is  not  a  contemptible  ball-room  this,  with  its  elastic  turf 
underfoot  and  its  gorgeous  canopy  overhead ;  with  its  myriad 
flower-scents  outrival!  ing  Lubin,and  the  soft  glory  of  the  moon, 
which  shall  presently  pale  by  comparison  a  million  wax-lights. 
As  for  music— Pa^anini  himself  would  have  lingered  in  an 


VIOLA.  101 

ecstasy  to  catch  the  wondrously  beautiful  improvisations  which 
flow  from  Heinrich  Hublemaim's  soul  to-night.  It  had  come 
to  be  an  understood  thing  that  this  eccentric  Ilhinelander  was 
to  furnish  the  music  for  their  fetes  whensoever  the  villagers 
saw  fit  to  call  upon  him ;  and  nothing  could  exceed  the  amiable 
humility,  the  untiring  patience,  with  which  he  accepted  and 
fulfilled  his  role. 

Only,  after  the  most  indefatigable  of  the  dancers  had  declared 
herself  at  last  hors  de  combat,  and  the  weary  revellers  begun 
to  disperse  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes  homeward,  throwing  a 
careless  "  Grazie,  signore!"  behind  them  as  they  trooped  away, 
it  was  Heinrich's  invariable  custom  to  wander  off  alone  in  an 
opposite  direction,  playing  as  he  walked,  his  eyes  fixed  straight 
before  him  with  the  unspeculative  stare  of  a  somnambulist. 
Out  of  the  narrow,  humdrum,  sordid  life  of  the  peasant  he 
walked  through  the  gates  of  divine  harmony,  and,  shaking  the 
dust  from  the  feet  of  his  poor,  cramped  existence,  he  talked 
with  the  angels  in  their  own  tongue. 

And  sometimes,  too,  he  would  call  forth  all  the  elves  and 
gnomes  and  tricksy  sprites  which  make  up  a  midsummer- 
night's  dream,  by  fantasias  the  most  fantastic,  the  wildest,  the 
sweetest,  which  resounding  throughout  the  valley  would  wake 
the  slumbering  echoes  and  break  up  into  bits  of  gleeful  rever- 
beration the  solemn  silence.  These  would  die  away  into  some 
adagio  symphony  of  Haydn  or  Bach,  breathing  the  very  spirit 
of  peace  once  more  into  the  night,  or  into  the  tenderest  of 
nocturnes,  offered  in  ecstatic  homage  to  the  snow-crowned, 
mystic  beauty  of  moonlit  Monte  Rosa. 

Long  after  the  last  light  had  been  extinguished  in  the  village, 
Liebchen's  listening  ear  would  catch  the  faint  refrain,  growing 
ever  fainter,  borne  towards  her  on  the  evening  breeze ;  but 
when  the  notes  grew  clearer  and  more  distinct,  she  would  nestle 
down  deeper  in  her  little  white  cot,  for  then  she  knew  that  her 
father's  face  was  turned  towards  home.  Every  moment  he 
•would  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  until  the  sweet  strains  ceased 
abruptly  as  he  entered  the  village  and  silenced  his  instrument 
out  of  regard  for  the  weary  sleepers  who  must  rise  with  the  sun. 

Liebchen  would  listen  then  for  his  step  in  the  room  adjoin- 
ing hers,  where  he  would  move  noiselessly  about,  creeping  to 
bed  by  the  moonlight.  After  laying  his  treasured  violin  in 
its  well-worn  case,  he  was  wont  to  draw  it  tenderly  to  his  side, 

9* 


102  SOUCI. 

throwing  one  arm  across  it,  and,  with  the  smile  of  a  child  on 
the  pale,  wrinkled  face,  he  would  fall  asleep  with  that  last  noc- 
turne lingering  in  his  soul. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  Art  thou  weary,  dearest  ?  We  are  so  selfish  !  Do  not  play 
another  note;  thou  art  pale  and  tired  !"  And  Liebchen,  marvel- 
lously lovely  in  her  broidered  bodice,  and  with  a  spray  of  starry 
clematis  twisted  in  her  golden  hair,  lays  an  imperative  little 
hand  upon  the  old  man's  bow,  and  thereby  checks  the  evolu- 
tions of  a  score  of  couples. 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  urges  Heinrich,  gently,  as  angry  excla- 
mations rise  about  them  ;  "  I  am  not  at  all  tired,  Liebchen." 
But  the  blue  eyes  have  a  strained,  haggard  look  in  them,  and 
his  face  has  an  ashen  hue  different  from  its  ordinary  pallor. 
.  Liebchen  instinctively  follows  the  direction  of  his  gaze, 
which  is  growing  almost  terrified  now.  Approaching  them 
from  the  village  she  sees  a  man  dressed  in  a  scarlet  livery 
and  top-boots,  with  a  silver  cockade  in  his  hat.  He  draws 
nearer  and  glances  keenly  about ;  instantly  all  eyes  are  riveted 
upon  him.  "  II  Signore  Hablemann  ?"  he  demands  of  Hein- 
rich, touching  his  hat  respectfully. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  am  he;  what  is  your  business  with  me?" 
inquires  the  German  nervously,  and  in  unintelligible  Italian. 

The  dancers  gather  around,  straining  their  ears  to  catch 
the  stranger's  reply ;  they  are  disappointed,  however,  for  he 
says,  simply,  "  La  Signora  Hablemann  would  speak  with  you 
immediately,"  and,  with  a  bow,  turns  back  in  the  direction 
whence  he  came. 

Drawing  her  father's  arm  through  hers,  Liebchen,  with  one 
anxious  glance  at  his  altered  countenance,  leads  him  through 
the  group  of  grumbling  couples,  and  they  walk  swiftly  towards 
the  cottage. 

In  the  rustic  porch  before  the  door  they  are  startled  to  find 
half  a  dozen  strange  faces  gathered  together.  Liebchen  hesi- 
tates to  approach,  from  a  novel  sensation  of  shyness  ;  Heinrich 
also  advances  with  evident  reluctance.  A  lady  richly  attired, 
with  a  pale,  aristocratic  face,  on  which  rests  a  cloud  of  per- 
plexed annoyance,  leans  slightly  on  the  balustrade,  as  if  watch- 
ing for  the  return  of  the  messenger.  A  girl  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  clings  tightly  to  her  mother's  hand,  crushing  all  her 
pretty  silk  furbelows  and  lace  frills  as  she  shrinks  closer  and 


VIOLA.  103 

closer  to  her  side.  An  angular,  very  staid-looking  person, 
plainly  dressed,  wrapped  in  a  Scotch  plaid  and  wearing  a  straw 
bonnet  trimmed  with  gay  tartan  ribbon,  stands  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, striving  in  vain  to  check  the  yelping  and  snapping  of 
an  exquisitely-hideous  Skye ;  a  couple  of  liveried  servants  con- 
verse together  in  whispers  with  frantic  gesticulation ;  and 
Frau  Hablemann  surveys  the  group,  cool,  collected,  ugly,  and 
silent  as  usual. 

"  Dlo!  what  a  lovely  child !  Oh,  see,  Mees  Crawford,  what 
an  angel!"  exclaims  the  lady,  whose  brow  clears  instantly  at 
sight  of  Liebchen ;  and  she  moves  a  step  or  two  forward,  and 
with  a  winning  smile,  says,  "  We  have  been  waiting  for  you, 
signorina;  you  will  interpret  for  us,  will  you  not?  Unfortu- 
nately, I  do  not  speak  German,  nor  do  any  of  my  people,  and 
this  good  woman,"  glancing  towards  the  Frau,  who  is  speak- 
ing in  low  tones  to  her  sou,  "  is  becoming  quite  impatient  with 
my  stupidity." 

"  I  shall  do  my  best^signora,"  replies  the  girl,  timidly,  gazing 
with  rapt  admiration  at  the  fair,  clear-cut  face  bending  to- 
wards her,  and  thinking  that  she  has  never  before  listened  to 
such  musical  Italian. 

"  We  were  posting  from  Dorno  d'Ossola  to  Pallanza,"  re- 
sumes the  lady,  whilst  the  daintily -dressed  doll  at  her  side 
relaxes  her  frightened  grip  a  little  and  devours  Liebchen  with 
her  round  brown  eyes ;  "  but  in  descending  one  of  these  hor- 
rible hills," — here  she  shudders  slightly, — "  one  of  the  wheels 
came  off  our  carriage,  and  we  were  very  nearly  upset.  As  it 
is,  the  carriage  is  much  strained,  and  will  require  a  day's  repair 
before  we  can  use  it.  In  the  mean  time  we  must  lodge  some- 
where. Can  you  tell  me  if  there  is  a  decent  inn  within  walking 
distance?" 

Liebchen  shakes  her  head,  with  a  smile  ;  but  before  she  can 
reply,  her  father,  from  whose  countenance  every  trace  of  dis- 
turbance has  vanished,  approaches  and  offers  them  hospitality 
in  his  gentlest  tones  and  worst  Italian.  The  lady  turns  with 
a  puzzled  look  to  Liebchen,  who  interprets  in  her  pretty  patois. 
After  a  moment's  consultation  with  the  tartan  lady,  their  in- 
vitation is  accepted,  with  profuse  thanks  and  apologies.  The 
girl's  expressive  gesture  when  the  inn  was  mentioned  has 
determined  them  to  remain  in  their  present  quarters,  which 
at  least  look  clean  and  comfortable. 


104  SO  UCI. 

After  dispatching  her  servants  to  the  "  Corona,"  the  only 
inn  the  village  affords,  and  where  the  usual  characteristics  of 
Italian  hostelries  prevent  their  enjoying  that  repose  to  which 
they  are  entitled,  the  lady  allows  Liebchen  to  conduct  her 
into  the  sitting-room,  to  remove  her  hat  and  lace  mantle,  and 
to  offer  her  a  glass  ojf  red  wine,  which  she  drinks  as  gratefully 
as  though  it  were  her  favorite  Lacrima  Christi. 

Mees  Crawford  performs  the  same  office  for  the  French  doll 
and  herself,  except  that  she  politely  refuses  the  wine  and  asks 
for  a  bowl  of  goat's  milk  instead.  When  this  is  brought  to 
her,  warm  from  the  goat,  she  closes  her  eyes  and  drinks  it 
down  with  an  expression  of  agony  in  her  face  which  fills 
Liebchen  with  wonder.  "  If  she  doesn't  like  it,  why  does  she 
drink  it?"  the  child  asks  herself.  Later,  she  discovers  that 
whatever  Mees  Crawford  believes  to  be  her  duty  she  performs 
unshrinkingly — often  with  a  wry  face. 

Frau  Hiiblemann  is  busy  making  suitable  provision  for  her 
guests  in  the  sleeping  department.  Ruthlessly  she  turns 
Liebchen  out  of  her  downy  nest  for  the  little  stranger's  accom- 
modation, and  makes  up  a  hasty  bed  in  the  attic  for  the  un- 
complaining Heinrich,  upon  whose  couch  the  angular  limbs  of 
the  English  governess  are  to  repose.  The  Frau's  immaculate 
bedroom,  with  its  snowy  draperies  and  its  mountain  of  eider- 
down, is  to  receive  the  chief  guest.  Liebchen  and  her  grand- 
mother are  to  occupy  a  sofa-bed  in  the  sitting-room. 

After  a  light  but  wholesome  repast  the  tired  travellers  with- 
draw to  seek  rest  among  the  lavender-scented  pillows  of  the 
good  Frau,  and  Liebchen  steals  out-of-doors.  Guided  by  the 
soft  strains  of  the  violin,  she  reaches  her  father's  side,  as  he 
sits  on  a  rustic  bench  at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  kitchen- 
garden,  solacing  himself  by  a  talk  with  his  "  familiar." 

"Thou  art  like  a  spirit,  Liebchen,"  he  says,  making  room 
for  her  beside  him.  "  I  did  not  hear  a  rustle  or  a  footfall ! 
And  the  Contessa.  and  the  others, — can  they  spare  thee  to  me 
for  a  minute?" 

"  Ah,  dearest !  I  was  so  impatient  until  they  all  went  to 
bed  !  I  could  hear  thee  calling  me  with  this,"  touching  his  in- 
strument, "all  through  the  supper-time  and  through  the  endless 
hour  afterwards  !  And  now,  my  father,  I  must  bring  thee 
in-doors;  thy  supper  waits,  and  thou  wast  not  well  to-day, 
remember.  Thou  must  sleep  early."  And  she  twines  one 


VIOLA.  105 

arm  about  his  bowed  neck  and  lays  her  head  against  his 
shoulder. 

••  Not  just  yet.  Licbchen,"  pleads  Heinrich ;  "  the  night  is  so 
perfect, — let  us  enjoy  it.  Dost  thou  smell  the  honeysuckle, 
•intiiif  GelicLte?  Stay,  I  shall  play  our  favorite  for  thee,  and 
then,"  with  a  sigh,  "  we  shall  go  within." 

The  girl  withdraws  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and  sits 
spell-bound,  whilst  he  draws  from  his  instrument  an  almost 
human  utterance  of  mixed  tenderness  and  despair, — a  wail  of 
melancholy  woven  into  sweet,  passionate  cries  of  rapturous 
love,  of  aching  ecstasy,  which  tremble  off  into  broken  sobs 
and  weary,  heart-hungry  sighs. 

It  seems  to  tell  the  old,  world-worn  story  in  words  of  fire: 
the  hope,  the  longing,  the  despair ;  delicious  pang  and  sharp 
wild  grief  throbbing  in  every  note,  whilst  throughout  runs  the 
same  strange,  wonderfully-sweet  air,  like  a  silver  thread  through 
dim  and  gloom-shaded  woof. 

"  Ach  Gott .'"  murmurs  Heinrich,  passing  his  hand  over 
his  furrowed  face,  down  which  the  silent  tears  are  stealing. 
"  Wt/cJie  schrecktichfs  Loos  ist  mir  gefaUen  !  Aiif  eine  kiirze 
'/.<  it  iiiiiuiitixi  IK  Gliicltseb'gkcit  genossen  zu  haben,  imd  nun  fiir 
immer  derstlben  beraubt  zu  icerden  !"* 

Liebchen,  pained  and  puzzled  by  this  outburst,  caresses  him 
silently.  Strange,  mysterious  words  always  broke  from  his 
lips  when  he  played  this  favorite  air, — a  marvel  of  his  own 
composition,  which  he  had  christened  "Die  Vergissmeinniclit"^ 
and  dedicated  to  her  lost  mother :  it  never  failed  to  stir  to 
its  depths  the  heart  of  this  solitary,  silent  man. 

"  She  is  in  heaven,  dearest,"  whispers  Liebchen,  pressing 
her  golden  head  upon  his  breast.  "  In  heaven  with  God  and 
His  angels,  where  she  hears  always  music  like  thine,  and  where 
she  waits  for  thee  and  me.  Do  not  weep,  my  father ;  she  sees 
u.<.  and  it  will  give  her  pain  !" 

Heinrich  bends  to  kiss  the  child's  upturned  face,  and, 
forcing  a  smile,  says  cheerily,  "No  more  tears,  then,  in>  in 
Kinilclim!  Why  should  I  repine  when  the  good  God  has 
given  me  an  angel  like  thee  in  exchange  for  my  poor  darling?'' 


*  What  a  horrible  fate  is  mine!   to  know  heaven  for  a  brief  space 
and  tlit-n  to  be  cast  forth  forever  ! 
f  The  Forget-me-not. 
K* 


106  SOUCI. 

Still,  in  spite  of  this  reassurance,  as  they  saunter  slowly 
towards  the  cottage  his  bow  trembles  lingeringly  over  the 
refrain  of  that  wailing  melody  through  which  his  soul  at  times 
breaks  its  dumb  bonds — and  speaks. 


CHAPTER  III. 

SHRIMPS   AND    OYSTERS. 

"Shrimps  and  oysters  are  the  lower  order  of  the  inhabitants,  -and 
these,  it  is  pretended,  have  reason  to  complain  of  the  aristocracy  above 
them." 

FRAU  HABLEMANN  and  her  son  are  in  earnest  consultation, 
— that  is  to  say,  Heinrich,  in  a  great  arm-chair,  head  bent  on 
hand  in  an  attitude  of  listless  dejection,  endures  silently  the 
flood  of  expostulation,  adjuration,  and  authoritative  counsel 
with  which  the  usually  taciturn  old  woman  threatens  to  over- 
whelm him. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  she  finishes,  "  it  is  a  chance  we  may  never 
have  again  to  do  our  duty  to  the  child, — a  chance  sent  by  the 
good  God  Himself, — and  thou  wouldst  thwart  it !  Beautiful 
as  an  angel,  she  is  growing  up  here  as  ignorant  as  a — a  chamois ! 
And  thou  knowest,  Heinrich,  that  she  is  all  that  we  have  left 
of  a  sorry  bargain,  and  we  should  do  our  best  for  her." 

"Don't  forget  the.  money,  mother,"  he  breaks  in,  bitterly; 
"  don't  forget  those  rix-thalers  for  which  my  child  was " 

"  Heinrich !"  bursts  forth  the  enraged  Frau,  "  durst  thou 
dare  to  cast  the  money  in  my  face  ?  The  money  which  would 
have  given  us  a  comfortable  home  in  some  better  place  than 
this  miserable,  idol-worshipping  Italian  village  !  The  money  ! 
Gott  in,  Himmel!  the  money,  half  of  which  was  spent,  all  at 
once,  on  that  wretched  old  black  fiddle  there !" 

"  Wretched — black — fiddle  !"  Heinrich's  eyes  blaze  as 
they  have  not  done  for  many,  many  years.  "  A  genuine 

Amati!  and  thou  dost  call  it  a Ach!  lieber  Gott !"  He 

covers  his  face  with  his  hand. 


VIOLA.  107 

"  Who  knows  ?"  continues  the  old  Frau,  ignoring  this  un- 
wonted flash  of  indignation ;  "  some  day  the  child  way  make 
a  good  marriage  ;  she  is  so  lovely.  Stranger  things  have  hap- 
pened. Let  her  once  get  her  foot  out  of  this  stupid  valley 
and  learn  something  more  than  her  dumb  beasts  and  birds  can 
teach  her,  and  she  may  be  able  to  do  great  things  for  herself 
and  us."  The  woman's  keen  eye  glistens,  and  she  pats  ten- 
derly the  creases  out  of  the  little  skirt  she  is  folding.  She 
is  putting  Liebchen's  scant  wardrobe  in  order,  for  she  has 
already  decided  that  the  Countess's  invitation  to  spend  a  fort- 
night with  her  little  daughter  at  their  villa  on  Lago  Maggiore 
is  to  be  accepted.  Heinrich  has  rebelled,  it  is  true;  his  in- 
stincts warn  him  against  transplanting  his  hardy  little  field- 
flower  to  a  conservatory  for  ever  so  brief  a  season,  and  he  has 
made  a  violent  effort  to  assert  his  authority.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  stronger  will  is  gradually  prevailing,  ahd  when  his 
mother  sighs  forth,  "  The  child  has  a  dull  life  of  it  here.  She 
is  so  eager  to  go.  It  is  natural ;  we  are  not  fit  companions 
for  her,  poor  little  one  !:>  he  starts  up. 

"  Eager  to  go,  is  she  ?  why  didst  thou  not  say  that  she 
wished  to  go? — and  it  is  only  a  fortnight!  I  have  lived 
through  many  a  lonely  fortnight.  Yes,  mother,  thou  art 
right,  we  are  not  Jit  companions  for  her!"  And  with  those 
last  bitter  words, — how  bitter  he  and  she  know,— he  lifts  his 
comforter  tenderly  from  its  faded  velvet-lined  cradle  and  car- 
ries it  off  with  him,  leaving  his  mother  grimly  triumphant. 

Three  days  have  passed  since  the  accident  to  the  Countess's 
equipage, — which  was  discovered  to  be  more  serious  than  was 
at  first  supposed, — and  the  great  lady  and  the  little  great  lady 
and  the  governess  are  still  domiciled  under  Frau  Hilblemaun's 
humble  roof.  They  have  been  three  days  of  intolerable  enmti 
to  the  great  lady,  who  has  improved  the  shining  hours  in  the 
sha'diest  corner  of  the  homely  fitting-room  with  a  French 
novel  which  she  providentially  found  in  her  dressing-case. 

The  governess,  with  a  laudable  desire  for  information,  has 
walked  over  the  entire  village ;  peeped  into  the  cottages  ; 
patted  the  Murillo-faced  babies  with  the  end  of  her  parasol, 
and  criticised  the  dim,  pre-Raphaelite  Madonna  which  forms 
the  altar-piece  of  the  little  chapel. 

To  the  small  Maddalena  these  three  days  have  proved  delight- 
ful. She  has  visited  with  Liebchen  all  her  favorite  haunts ; 


108  SOUCI. 

she  has  plucked  all  the  roses  in  the  garden,  and  devoured  a 
peck  or  two  of  strawberries  and  cherries.  She  has  spread  her 
silken  skirts  over  the  back  of  a  donkey,  and  explored  the 
nooks  which  Liebchen  loves  on  the  hill-sides.  She  has  fed  the 
German  lassie's  snow-white  rabbits,  and  coveted  the  prettiest, 
in  a  side-long  whisper ;  and,  when  it  is  bestowed  upon  her, 
she  has  protested  vehemently,  and — accepted  it.  She  has 
stroked  with  dainty  fingers  the  lustrous  back  of  a  ring-dove 
that  Liebchen  has  trained  to  answer  her  call,  sit  on  her  shoul- 
der, and  peck  at  food  from  her  hand.  The  little  great  lady 
stroked  it,  and  looked  ready  to  cry  for  vexation  ;  why  has  she 
not  been  offered  the  ring-dove  instead  of  the  horrid  little 
rabbit  ?  Liebchen's  quick  tact  comes  to  the  rescue  ;  the  dove 
is  pressed  upon  her  guest's  acceptance.  The  pout  melts  into 
a  smile ;  the  tear  dries  in  the  brown  eyes ;  all  is  serene  once 
more.  The  peasant-maiden  wonders  whether  she  dare  offer 
this  fairy-like  being,  who  seems  so  royally  condescending  and 
is  so  petulantly  exacting,  her  string  of  coral  beads,  her  pet 
goat,  her  little  plaster  cast  of  St.  John, — in  short,  any  and 
all  of  her  few  possessions, — so  completely  is  she  fascinated  by 
the  sweetly-modulated  voice,  the  carefully-worded  phrases,  the 
well-trained  movements  and  smiles  and  glances  of  the  little 
aristocrat.  In  her  generous  enthusiasm  she  would  have  laid 
her  choicest  treasures  at  the  daintily-shod  feet  without  demur, 
and — without  demur  would  they  assuredly  have  been  accepted. 

In  all  her  short  life  never  has  Maddalena  met  with  so  gentle, 
so  unselfish,  and  so  devoted  a  slave  as  the  lovely  child  who 
mistakes  her  grace  of  manner  for  grace  of  mind  and  believes 
that  fervent  expressions  spring  spontaneously  from  a  warm 
heart. 

When,  at  last,  the  travelling-carriage  is  pronounced  ready 
for  service,  the  sudden  and  violent  affection  which  the  little 
Italian  professes  for  her  humble  friend  proclaims  it-self  loudly, 
and  she  stoutly  asserts  her  determination  to  spend  the  rest  of 
her  life  in  the  Vogogna  cottage  unless  Liebchen  consents  to 
accompany  her.  That  her  friend  trembles  and  shrinks  from 
the  latter  proposition,  dreading  lest  the  wilful  creature  shall 
carry  her  point  in  it  as  in  all  else,  in  no  wise  deters  her  from 
persisting  in  this  decision.  The  Con tessa— after  the  first  mo- 
ment of  perplexed  wonder — thinks  the  affair  very  simple: 
her  pet  craves  a  new  plaything,  a  human  toy  !  Dio  grazie  ! 


VIOLA.  109 

this  is,  at  least,  a  gentle-mannered,  presentable  child }  she 
will  arrange  it  all  with  the  hideous  old  German  woman.  In 
a  fortnight  her  darling  will  have  wearied  of  her  caprice,  and 
the  little  peasant  can  be  sent  home 

With  her  most  winning  graciousness  she  extends  her  invi- 
tation tojjiebchen,  and — it  is  shyly  but?  firmly  declined.  The 
child  has  but  one  thought:  she  cannot  leave  her  father. 

A  scene  of  dire  confusion  ensues.  Tears  and  sobbings ; 
stampings  and  fierce  rebellion ;  the  discussion  between  Hein- 
rich  and  his  mother ;  more  tears,  more  talk,  and — victory  ! 

It  has  been  a  morning  full  of  pain  to  the  gentle  Liebchen ; 
her  heart  has  ached  for  Maddalena,  for  her  father,  for  herself. 
Pale  and  sad  she  awaits  the  conclusion  of  the  struggle ;  paler 
and  sadder  she  is  lifted  by  the  red-jacketed  postilion  into 
her  seat  in  the  grand  carriage.  In  an  agony  of  grief — for  the 
first  time  in  her  life — she  leans  over  the  side  to  embrace  her 
father  once  more ;  her  father,  whose  sorrowful  face  wears  a 
wintry  smile  as  he  whispers  in  her  ear,  "  Come  back  soon, 
ini'in  Liebchen  /"  Then,  as  the  tears  burst  forth,  her  head 
seems  to  whirl  wildly,  she  hears  the  postilion's  "Presto  !  an- 
date!"  her  grandmother's  cheery  "  Gliick  auf!"  she  sees  as 
through  a  mist  her  father's  waving  hand,  and  feels  the  swift 
motion  of  the  carriage  which  is  bearing  her  away;  then 
Maddalena's  arms  about  her  neck  and  her  kisses  on  her  cheek, 
and  the  silvery  voice  of  the  Contessa  entreating  her  not  to 
distress  her  by  the  sight  of  tears. 

Before  they  halt  at  Migiandone,  where  they  rest  overnight, 
Liebchen  has  begun  the  alphabet  of  social  education.  She 
has  learned  that  she  must  not  rise  from  her  seat  and  curtsy 
whenever  she  is  addressed  ;  that  Liebchen  is  not  a  name,  and 
that  henceforth  she  will  answer  to  that  chosen  for  her  by  the 
Contessa  ("  She  is  a  shy,  modest  little  thing,  and  reminds  me 
of  my  favorite  flower,"  the  Contessa  had  said,  smilingly:  "I 
shall  call  her  Viola  .'")  ;  that  as  she  is  to  be  Maddalena's  com- 
panion and  playfellow,  she  must  imitate  that  young  lady's  man- 
ners and  accent ;  that  she  must  not  look  shy  or  feel  ill  at  ease, 
and — th;it  she  is  to  be  very  happy  if  she  will  only  choose  to 
be  so.  The  thrifty  little  German  opens  her  blue  eyes  widely 
when  the  great  lady  desires  the  coachman  to  stop  his  horses 
:md  directs  that  the  neat  parcel  containing  her  simple  wardrobe 
shall  be  bestowed  upon  a  family  of  vagrants  taking  their  after- 

10 


no  sovci. 

noon  siesta  on  the  roadside.  Her  surprise  is  still  greater  when, 
before  starting  from  Migiandone  the  next  morning,  she  is  re- 
quested to  bedeck  herself  in  the  dainty  suit  which  transforms 
her  from  top  to  toe  into  a  beautiful  counterpart  of  the  little 
signorina.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  learns  the  perilous 
truth  that  beauty  is  power.  The  Countess-  lavishes,*  caresses 
upon  her,  as  though  the  linsey  woolsey  gulf  between  them  had 
been  suddenly  bridged  by  silk  and  lace ;  Maddalena  glances 
at  her  with  a  slight  pout  of  envy ;  the  hotel  chambermaid 
assures  her  she  is  an  angel ;  the  servants  below  break  into  mur- 
murs of  admiration  when  she  appears;  and  the  English  gov- 
erness kisses  her  gravely,  pitying  her  in  her  heart. 

Already  the  intoxicating  odor  of  delicious  incense  greets 
her  on  every  side  ;  already  the  tender  bloom  of  innocence  is 
being  polished  off  the  fair  young  fruit. 

******* 

That  night,  Heinrich  Hablemann  is  wandering  alone  along 
the  road  upon  which  he  had  watched  his  Liebchen  disappear 
from  view.  He  is  venting  his  pent-up  grief  through  the 
plaintive  notes  of  his  violin,  and  losing  himself,  as  usual, 
among  the  clouds  of  heaven,  when  he  is  suddenly  brought 
back  to  earth  by  the  sight  of  a  prostrate  figure  stretched  across 
his  path.  Stooping  towards  it,  he  is  able  to  make  out  by  the 
brilliant  starlight  the  face  and  form  of  a  youth  who  appears 
to  be  almost  in  extremis  through  starvation  and  fatigue.  His 
clothing,  travel-stained  and  ragged,  barely  covers  him  ;  the 
soles  of  his  shoes  are  worn  off,  and  his  feet  cut  and  bleeding ; 
his  face  is  haggard,  wild,  and  blanched  by  the  dreadful  pangs 
of  hunger. 

Encouraging  him  by  kindly  words,  Heinrich  with  some  dif- 
ficulty arouses  him,  and,  raising  him  to  his  feet,  supports  the 
tottering  footsteps  as  he  leads  him  towards  the  cottage. 

Fortunately,  he  finds  a  light  still  glimmering  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  Frau's  bedroom,  and  being  for  all  practical  purposes 
helpless  as  a  child  himself,  Heinrich  deposits  the  shadowy  form 
of  poor  Tonio  in  a  comfortable  arm-chair,  and  ascends  quickly 
to  his  mother's  room.  Opening  the  door  abruptly,  he  causes 
her  to  rise  from  her  seat  with  an  ejaculation  of  alarm,  drop- 
ping from  her  lap  a  pile  of  letters,  yellow  with  age,  which  she 
has  been  poring  over. 

"Ach  Gott  in  Iltmmcl!"  she  exclaims,  her  face  turning 


VIOLA.  in 

to  the  hue  of  parchment,  "  what  dost  thou  mean  by  coming 
like  that  upon  me  and  frightening  me  out  of  my  senses?" 
And  she  hastily  gathers  together  the  letters,  and,  binding 
them  about  with  a  black  string,  locks  them  securely  away. 
Jlcinrich  humbly  desires  her  to  attend  to  the  pressing  neces- 
sities of  the  wayfarer  within  their  gates,  which  she,  nothing 
loath,  being  at  heart  kindly  disposed,  proceeds  forthwith  to  do. 
That  night  the  exhausted  lad  occupies  the  sofa-bed  in  the 
pantry  next  the  kitchen,  and  for  many  nights  thereafter, 
during  which  the  good  Frau  nurses  and  tends  him  faithfully. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   LILY   OP   THE   VALLEY. 

"  Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  bands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ?" 

IN  the  white-winged  villa  on  Lago  Maggiore  a  fortnight 
had  swiftly  lost  itself  in  a  month,  which,  speeding  by,  found 
itself  in  turn  swallowed  up  by  the  swift-coursing  year,  and 
still  the  little  village-maiden  was  detained  by  the  young  Madda- 
lena's  imperious  will. 

Two  pilgrimages  had  Heinrich  made  on  foot,  and  in  abso- 
lute defiance  of  the  ruling  spirit  of  his  house,  to  rest  his  eyes 
upon  the  flower-like  face  he  worshipped,  and  each  time  he  had 
returned  with  lightened  heart,  assured  of  his  darling's  welfare 
and  entire  contentment.  For  Viola  was  undeniably  happy. 
It  is  true  that  she  was  sometimes  troubled  by  misgivings  in 
regard  to  the  dreariness  of  her  father's  life,  and  would  grow 
self-reproachful  thereupon  ;  but  the  patient,  gentle  soul  would 
always  reassure  her  with  unselfish  mendacity,  and  seem  so  re- 
joiced at  her  good  fortune  that  she  could  not  but  grow  glad 
again.  Of  the  sincerity  of  Maddalena's  devotion  to  herself  she 
had  soon  become  disillusionized  :  the  small  heiress  had  dis- 


112  SOUCL 

played  even  more  frantic  grief  and  passion  at  the  prospect  of 
losing  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  Shetland  ponies,  belonging  to 
an  English  family  in  the  neighborhood,  than  at  parting  from 
herself.  She  soon  discovered  that  her  caprices  were  as  short- 
lived as  they  were  violent.  Perhaps  this  fact  was  a  trifle 
painful  to  Liebchen,  as  the  discovery  of  the  sawdust  stuffing 
of  their  idols  always  must  be  to  the  young ;  but,  if  so,  she 
found  ample  consolation  in  the  steady,  undemonstrative  affec- 
tion of  the  English  governess,  who  opened  her  empty,  maiden 
heart  to  the  beautiful  child  and  took  her  firmly  into  it.  To- 
wards the  Contessa,  Viola  felt  a  sort  of  adoring  affection,  and 
this  woman,  whose  beauty  was  already  on  the  wane,  accepted 
the  implied  flattery  of  every  word  and  look  and  action  of  the 
little  peasant-girl,  as  eagerly  and  hungrily  as  a  bee  sucks  honey 
from  a  wild  flower,  finding  it  not  less  sweet  than  that  lying  in 
the  heart  of  an  exotic. 

Her  only  child  had  never  offered  the  admiration,  the  re- 
spectful homage,  the  tender  reverence,  which  Viola  laid  unre- 
mittingly at  her  feet  with  as  little  of  the  meanness  .of  obse- 
quiousness as  she  would  have  felt  in  expressing  her  naive 
delight  in  any  beautiful  thing.  The  refined  loveliness  of  this 
woman  fascinated  her ;  to  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  swart 
faces  of  the  Vogogna  peasantry,  their  coarse  features  and  un- 
gainly movements,  the  Contessa,  with  her  languid  grace,  her 
delicate  hands  and  feet,  and  the  creamy  pallor  of  her  high- 
bred face,  seemed  almost  like  a  spirit  from  another  world. 
The  child  loved  to  look  at  her,  to  win  a  smile  from  her,  to 
minister  to  her  indefatigably  during  the  slight  nervous  ail- 
ments to  which  she  was  subject.  Although  Miss  Crawford  had 
gained  the  stronger  hold  upon  her  affections,  it  was  the  mu- 
sical voice  of  the  Contessa  whose  praise  gave  her  the  greater 
pleasure ;  it  was  she  for  whom  the  bouquet  of  violets  was 
daily  gathered,  and  whom  Viola  unconsciously  and  instinct- 
ively imitated  in  voice,  in  gesture,  and  in  manner. 

Almost  immediately  after  their  arrival  at  the  villa,  the  gov- 
erness had  requested  and  obtained  permission  to  include  Viola 
in  the  instruction  which  she  had  found  sad  up-hill  work  with 
Maddalena.  The  result  was  equally  advantageous  to  both 
girls.  The  avidity  with  which  her  companion  seized  the  op- 
portunity of  acquiring  knowledge  piqued  and  stimulated  the 
thoughtless,  self-iudulgent  signorina.  She  struggled  to  emu- 


VIOLA.  113 

late  Viola's  patience  and  industry,  and  they  soon  marched 
side  by  side  through  the  intricate  mazes  of  her  once-detested 
studies. 

The  Contessa  was  delighted  :  her  daughter  had  not  inherited 
her  beauty,  therefore  she  must  not  be  a  dunce.  That  break- 
down in  the  Anzasca  valley  had  certainly  been  a  providential 
interposition ;  this  modest,  charming  little  village-girl  must 
be  induced  to  remain  with  them,  at  whatever  sacrifice,  until 
Maddalena's  education  should  be  completed. 

Thus  a  year  rolled  by,  followed  by  another,  and  still  an- 
other, and  Viola  has  not  once  re-crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
cottage  in  Vogogna.  When  the  season  arrived  for  closing 
the  Lake  villa  and  going  southwards  towards  Florence  or 
Rome,  she  had  always  suggested  her  return  to  her  humble 
home,  but  was  not  inconsolable  when  her  proposal  met  with 
prompt  refusal. 

And  so  she  breathed  the  breath  of  cities,  and  increased  in 
stature  and  loveliness,  whilst  her  mind  expanded,  throwing 
out  vigorous  shoots  in  every  direction,  which  flowered  luxuri- 
antly under  such  beneficent  influences ;  whilst  her  heart,  her 
pure  child-heart,  slumbered  dreamlessly. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HOME    AGAIN. 

....  "With  her  blue  eyes  upturned, 
As  if  life  were  one  long  and  sweet  surprise." 

UPON  the  peaceful  horizon  of  Viola's  life  a  cloud  has  at 
last  arisen.  At  first  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  it  gradu- 
ally spread  itself  over  the  bright  sky  of  her  present  joyous 
existence.  Occurrences  of  trifling  import  sometimes  take  the 
color  out  of  life  with  terrible  suddenness. 

There  are  letters  from  Paris,  from  relatives  of  Maddalena's 
dead  father,  urging  the  Countess  to  bring  her  only  child  to 
the  metropolis,  where  she  could  be  fim'sttcd  properly  in  tho 

10* 


114  SOVCI. 

languages  and  formed  in  the  graces  of  the  Parisian  leau- 
monde  ;  letters,  arbitrary  and  peremptory,  from  the  dowager- 
Countess,  who  has  already  fixed  upon  a  suitable  parti  for  her 
sixteen-year-old  granddaughter ;  letters  of  insidious  temptation 
from  gay  friends  of  other  days  to  the  still  attractive  woman 
who  had  voluntarily  exiled  herself  from  society  after  her  hus- 
band's death. 

These  are  openly  discussed :  Maddalena,  straightway  becom- 
ing intoxicated  with  the  prospect  held  out  to  her,  can  talk  of 
nothing  else.  Miss  Crawford  begins  sadly  to  pack  her  boxes 
preparatory  to  returning  to  England.  The  villa  is  advertised 
to  let ;  each  room  is  dismantled  of  its  pretty  ornaments,  pic- 
tures, statuary;  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house  is  covered  with 
huge  packing-cases ;  the  flower-beds  are  ruthlessly  trodden 
down  by  hurrying,  strange  feet ;  and — Viola  looks  on  with 
dry  eyes  but  a  bursting  heart.  She  feels  as  if  she  has  just 
awakened  from  a  dream  ;  the  past  three  years  seem  unreal  and 
vaguely  indistinct  to  her.  She  lets  out  the  hem  of  her  striped 
petticoat  and  the  seams  of  the  bodice  braided  by  her  grand- 
mother's kind  fingers,  and,  putting  off  her  dainty  silk  and 
muslin,  appears  before  them  all — the  simple  village-peasant. 
Beautiful  as  she  is,  the  Countess's  smile  is  a  sad  one  as  her 
eyes  rest  upon  her,  but  she  dares  not  remonstrate  ;  in  her  heart 
she  acknowledges  the  good  taste,  if  not  the  pride,  which  has 
prompted  the  girl  to  reassume  her  former  position  of  her  own 
accord. 

Maddalena  is  far  too  much  engrossed  by  her  own  prepara- 
tions and  anticipations  to  spare  a  thought  to  the  approaching 
separation  ;  but  when  Miss  Crawford  sits  down  exhausted  upon 
her  last  box,  packed,  corded,  and  ticketed,  her  heart  overflows 
at  sight  of  Viola  transformed  once  more  to  Liebchen, — but, 
ah,  with  what  a  difference  ! — and  she  clasps  her  in  her  arms, 
sobbing  with  an  abandon  which  she  would  have  sorely  depre- 
cated in  the  most  impressionable  of  her  pupils.  And  now 
the  sweetness  of  the  girl's  character  comes  uppermost.  For- 
getting her  own  pain,  she  seeks  to  cheer  the  good  woman  who 
has  been  her  truest  friend. 

"  Do  not  weep,  dear  Miss  Crawford,"  she  whispers  in  Eng- 
lish, as  she  caresses  her  tenderly.  "  You  are  going  home  to 
your  beloved  England,  to  your  sisters  and  their  little  children; 
think  how  glad  they  will  be  to  see  you  once  more  !  You,  who 


VIOLA.  115 

are  so  kind  and  generous  to  them  ;  they  will  never  be  able  to 
make  you  sufficiently  welcome." 

"  But  you,  Viola,  you,  my  child !"  sobs  the  poor  woman. 

"  Well !  am  I  not  going  to  my  father,  and — my  grand- 
mother, too  ?  They  love  me  dearly  ;  and  I  was  very  happy  with 
them " 

"  You  were  happy  ;  ah,  yes ;  but  shall  you  be  ?  I  have  had 
some  sorrowful  hours  lately,  Viola,  fearing  lest  I  may  have 
aided  in  unfitting  you  for  your  sphere  in  life.  I  have  thought 
and  cried  and  prayed  over  it,  my  dear,  and  I  cannot  regret  what 
I  have  done.  God  gave  you  intelligence  and  rare  facility  for 
learning ;  I  cannot  feel  that  I  have  done  wrong  in  teaching 
you  how  to  use  those  heaven-born  gifts;  and  yet " 

Viola  is  standing  now  beside  her,  with  one  hand  resting  on 
the  frame  of  the  open  window.  Before  her  stretches,  in  placid, 
smiling  beauty,  the  blue  lake  she  has  learned  to  love  so  well, 
but  her  eyes,  clear,  blue,  tranquil  as  itself,  are  raised  and  fixed 
upon  the  mountain  whose  top  is  bathed  in  the  purple  and 
golden  glory  of  the  setting  sun.  As  Miss  Crawford  looks  at 
her  the  words  die  upon  her  lips,  for  on  the  girl's  face  has 
fallen  a  reflection  of  the  radiance,  without  making:  its  beauty 
unearthly,  whilst  she  whispers  softly  these  words :)"  '  If  thou 
seekest  this  or  that,  and  wouldst  be  here  or  there,  to  enjoy 
thine  own  will  and  pleasure,  thou  shalt  never  be  quiet  or 
free  from  care,  and  in  everything  somewhat  will  be  wanting,  . 
and  in  every  place  there  will  be  some  that  will  cross  thee.'/ 
But  we  know,  do  we  not,  dear  Miss  Crawford,  that  we  may 
carry  our  own  happiness  with  us, — to  the  great  city  yon- 
der,— over  to  your  English  home, — or  into  the  quiet  valley, 
shut  in  by  the  blue  hills,  where  I  shall  be  to-morrow  ?" 

''  Thank  heaven  !  yes,"  murmurs  the  governess,  taking  in 
every  detail  of  the  lovely  picture  before  her,  that  she  may  hang 
it  in  the  gallery  of  her  memory  for  future  consolation.  "  My 
dear,  you  have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  heart.  I  shall  never 
forget  your  words ;  they  shall  comfort  me  when  I  am  far 
away  from  you."  And  the  tears  come  again. 

"  Not  my  words,  dear,"  says  Viola,  leaving  the  window  and 
kneeling  down  close  to  her.  "  Here  is  where  I  get  many  things 
that  help  me,"  she  continues,  drawing  from  her  pocket  a  small, 
well-worn  copy  of  "  The  Life  of  Thomas  k  Kempis,"  which 
Miss  Crawford  had  given,  her  a  year  before. 


116  souci. 

"  Ah,  Viola,  that  reminds  me ;  I  have  packed  a  little  box 
full  of  books  for  you, — all  my  old  favorite  authors,  you  know, 
and  my  Shakspeare  ;  there  it  is  ;"  pointing  to  a  good-sized  box 
in  one  corner  of  the  room.  "  You  will  have  it  taken  away 
with  your  luggage,  my  dear." 

The  girl  does  not  speak ;  she  is  overcome  by  this  greatest 
proof  of  her  friend's  devoted  affection.  Her  books!  Give 
away  her  favorite  books  ! — the  sole  Lares  and  Penates  of  her 
desolate  abiding-places!  Viola  can  only  kiss  her  silently 
through  her  own  fast-falling  tears. 

"  You  will  find  some  French  books  among  them,"  continues 
the  governess,  a  little  ashamed  of  her  temporary  weakness  and 
exceedingly  uncharacteristic  exposure  of  it.  "  I  should  like 
you  to  read  these  diligently ;  your  knowledge  of  French  and 
English  may  be  most  useful  to  you  some  day.  You  are  well 
educated,  my  dear, — that  is  to  say,  well  grounded ;  your  real 
education  is  yet  to  come.  Every  one  of  the  books  in  that  box 
will  help  you  to  it.  Many  of  them  we  have  already  read  to- 
gether ;  these  will  bear  several  readings  ;  the  rest  we  have  often 
talked  about.  Read  carefully  and  thoughtfully ;  a  page  well 
digested  is  more  nutritious  than  a  volume  swallowed  whole.  I 
always  think  of  Rumford's  proposal  to  feed  an  army  at  a  much 
cheaper  rate  by  simply  compelling  each  man  to  masticate  his 
food  properly.  Skimming  carelessly  over  libraries  never  makes 
any  good  brain-blood."  And  so  she  talks  on  rapidly  and  with- 
out a  pause,  giving  Viola  time  to  recover  herself,  gently  stroking 
the  sunny  hair  from  the  bowed  head  in  her  lap.  u  There  is 
another  thing,  my  dear,  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  about. 
It  is  obviously  your  duty  to  return  now  to  your  father  and 
your  grandmother,  but  the  day  may  come  when  you  will  be 
obliged  to  provide  for  yourself,  and  in  that  case  you  must  leave 
the  village  which  would  offer  you  no  field.  On  this  card  I 
have  written  an  address  that  will  always  find  me  in  England 
or — out  of  it.  I  need  not  tell  you  to  write  me, — I  am  sure 
you  know  how  much  I  shall  prize  your  letters, — or  to  apply  to 
me  without  reservation  for  advice  or — assistance  of  any  kind." 
Viola  promises  everything,  and  they  talk  softly  far  into  the 
night  about  many  things. 


VIOLA.  H7 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  THIS   IS   MEIN   LIEBCHEN,  ANTONIO." 

"A  face  tender  and  wise; 
God,  what  power  to  bless  in  the  pure  eyes, 
With  a  look  straight  out 
On  us  weak,  strewn  all  about." 

ANOTHER  sunset.  The  vesper-bell  is  ringing  out  its  "Stir- 
siim  corda"  to  the  toilers  in  the  fields  and  hamlet  of  Vogogna. 
The  fair  valley  has  smiled  up  in  the  face  of  the  June  sun  all 
day.  Under  his  fervent  kisses  the  purple  violets  and  the  many- 
tinted  convolvuli  had  hung  their  shy  heads,  and  the  coy  lily 
of  the  valley  had  hidden  itself  behind  its  long,  cool  leaves. 
But  now  they  are  stretching  forth  their  tender  throats  and 
holding  up  thirsting  lips  to  the  refreshing  dew,  which  renews 
their  life  and  draws  forth  the  sweetness  of  their  inmost  hearts, 
wherewith  to  load  with  fragrance  the  evening  air. 

Along  the  sun-scorched  Simplon,  lying  like  a  broad  white 
ribbon  between  the  green  and  yellow  meadows,  a  carriage  is 
swiftly  advancing.  As  it  draws  within  sight  of  the  village  it 
stops  ;  a  solitary  figure  descends ;  the  horses'  heads  are  turned 
towards  Migiandone. 

Viola  has  chosen  to  return  on  foot  to  her  humble  home. 

Joyfully  she  walks  along  the  bit  of  turf  fringing  the  road- 
side, with  face  uplifted,  seeming  to  breathe  into  her  very  soul 
the  tranquil  beauty  on  all  sides  of  her.  She  carries  her  straw 
hat  by  its  ribbons  in  her  hand.  The  soft  breeze  ruffles  the 
bronzed  gold  of  the  unruly  locks  about  her  temples  and  cools 
the  flush  the  day's  warmth  had  brought  into  her  cheek. 

Presently  she  stoops  to  plunge  her  face  down  into  a  cluster 
of  sweet-smelling  blossoms,  which  recall  some  childish  remi- 
niscence too  potently  to  be  passed  by  without  a  caress. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  !  How  dear  !  '  God  must  be  glad 
one  loves  His  world  so  much,'  "  she  says,  unconsciously  repeat- 


118  SOUCL 

ing  the  words  of  a  favorite  poet ;  and  turning  into  a  meadow, 
she  sits  down  on  a  stile  to  rest  for  a  moment  and  enjoy  more 
thoroughly  the  scene  which  has  not  gladdened  her  eyes  for 
so  many  years.  "There  is  the  little  chapel;  how  gray  it 
looks,  all  covered  up  with  silver  lichens !  And  there  is  the 
inn,  and  the  very  same  white  horses  drinking  at  the  trough  ! 
Our  cottage  I  cannot  see ;  the  trees  have  grown  so  tall  about 
it.  How  disappointed  grandmother  will  be  to  see  me  come 
up  the  road  on  foot !  Poor  grandmother  !  Am  I  not  to  go 
always  on  foot  for  the  rest  of  my  life?  Ah,  how  perfect 
are  the  colors  in  the  sky !  Like  the  Countess's  opals,  only  so 
much  more  beautiful !  And  the  hills  !  they  never  looked  so 
blue  to  me  before."  Then  she  stoops  smiling  to  pluck  a  spray 
of  wild  honeysuckle  which  runs  along  the  fence,  and  fastens  it 
in  the  lacing  of  her  bodice.  As  she  raises  her  head  she  per- 
ceives two  figures  approaching  her.  One  of  them  is  an  elderly- 
looking  man  with  long  hair  and  a  pale,  wrinkled  face,  the  other 
a  tall  and  well-formed  youth,  with  a  dark,  handsome  face  lit 
up  by  glowing,  large  brown  eyes.  His  arm  lies  caressingly 
across  the  older  man's  shoulders,  and  he  is  talking  to  him 
with  a  roguish  smile  on  his  lips.  Almost  simultaneously  their 
glances  fall  upon  the  young  girl,  who  has  started  to  her  feet 
and  stands  in  trembling  uncertainty  for  one  moment,  then, 
springing  down  the  stile,  runs  forward,  crying  in  German, 
"  My  father  !  My  own  dear  father !" 

The  young  man,  withdrawn  to  a  little  distance,  watches 
with  pleasure  the  frank  tenderness  of  this  meeting,  and  when 
Heiririch  at  last  turns  towards  him,  with  his  mild  blue  eyes  wet 
with  joyous  tears,  to  say,  "  This  is  mein  LiebcJien,  Antonio  ; 
my  ewe-lamb  come  back  to  me  again,"  he  is  startled  by  the 
exquisite  loveliness  of  the  face  which,  rosy  and  tearful,  raises 
itself  from  the  old  man's  breast  to  smile  upon  him. 

Never  in  his  life  had  his  heart  been  stirred  as  it  was  during 
that  one  moment  in  the  meadow  of  Vogogna ;  never  had  it 
thrilled  with  such  a  strange,  sweet  pain  !  Until  his  dying 
hour  this  moment  shall  stand  apart  from  every  other,  framed 
in  opal-tinted  clouds,  more  of  heaven  than  of  earth  defining 
its  pure  outlines,  associated  forever  with  the  peaceful  twilight, 
the  fragrance  of  wild  honeysuckle,  and  the  faint,  silvery  tones 
of  the  vesper-bell. 

As  they  walk  slowly  homeward,  Heinrich  discourses  in  his 


VIOLA.  119 

childlike  fashion  upon  the  pleasure  and  comfort  he  has  found 
during  these  lonely  years  in  the  society  of  this  young  man, 
who,  with  a  shy  but  quiet  dignity,  strives  to  stem  the  tide  of 
his  eloquent  eulogium. 

"  You  have  wondered  that  I  have  been  so  patient,  Liebchen, 
in  your  absence ;  now  you  know  why  I  have  been  able  to  live 
without  you.  Old  as  I  am,  and — and  stupid,  Antonio  finds 
time  to  walk  and  talk  with  me ;  and  so  I  have  not  even  asked 
you  to  leave  your  grand  friends,  knowing  that  one  day  you 
would  find  your  way  back  to  me  of  your  own  free  will." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Viola  murmurs,  pressing  the  arm  in  which  she 
has  linked  her  own,  while  she  glances  gratefully  at  Tonto,  who 
walks  on  the  other  side  of  her  father,  "  you  knew  that  I  would 
come  back ;  that  however  grand  and  kind  my  friends  were, 
this  valley  is  my  home."  Then,  speaking  Italian  out  of  con- 
sideration for  their  companion,  she  continues,  "  I  am  so  happy, 
so  happy  to  be  at  home  again  !"  A  moment  later,  she  ex- 
claims, "  But  your  violin,  my  father !  Is  it  possible  that  I 
see  you  without  it, — and  in  the  evening,  too  ?  ' 

The  old  man  smiles.  "  You  will  see  me  often  without  it, 
Liebchen.  Antonio  thinks  it  is  better  that  I  should  not  play 
all  the  time ;  indeed,  he  uses  my  instrument  almost  as  much 
as  I  do." 

"  Uses  your  violin  I  Ah,  you  have  indeed,  then,  won  his 
heart,"  she  laughs,  looking  around  her  father  at  Tonio.  "  He 
would  never  allow  any  other  hand  than  his  own  to  touch  it 
even  !  Do  you  love  it  as  much  as  he  does;  no, — that  would 
be  impossible, — but  as  much  as  I  do?" 

"  I  have  grown  very  fond  of  it,"  he  answers,  simply. 
"  Signore  Hablemann  has  taught  me  all  I  know " 

"  Ah,  we  have  had  grand  lessons !"  cries  the  old  man,  his 
withered  face  lighting  up  with  enthusiasm.  "  I  have  been 
happy  as  in  the  dear  past  days  when  my  pupils  were — but,  no 
matter.  We  have  studied  Baillot  and  Spohr  together,  and  he 
has  come  to  love  those  grand  old  fugues  nearly  as  well  as  I 
do."  He  stops,  breathless.  Viola  looks  surprised  ;  she  does 
not  remember  having  ever  seen  her  father  excited  to  such  a 
degree,  even  on  this  one  absorbing  topic. 

"  And  your  favorite  Viotti,  my  father,  have  you  grown  un- 
faithful to  him  ?"  she  asks,  smiling  as  she  would  at  a  child. 

"No,  no,  no:   we  study  him,  do  we  not,  Antonio?     And 


120  SOUCI. 

Kreutzer,  too.  Ah,  we  have  delicious  hours  when  the  day  is 
over  and  we  carry  out  our  violins  into  the  hills !" 

"  I  see,'1  says  Viola,  somewhat  sadly, — "  I  see  you  have  not 
missed  me  at  all."  A  little  jealous  pang  shoots  through  her. 

Before  he  can  reply,  they  have  reached  the  gate  of  the  cot- 
tage-garden, and  an  exclamation  of  wonder  bursts  from  the 
young  girl  as  she  lifts  her  eyes. 

"  How  small  it  has  grown !  Can  this  be  the  cottage  I  re- 
member? And  the  garden, — what  a  tiny  strip!  Surely  the 
fences  have  crept  closer  to  each  other  !"  She  is  laughing,  but 
a  little  forcedly,  Tonio  thinks. 

The  old  Frau,  grown  stouter  and  more  grim,  fills  up  the 
narrow  door-way ;  and  when,  after  greeting  her  affectionately, 
Viola  enters  the  pitifully-small  sitting-room,  with  its  cumbrous 
furniture  and  its  low  ceiling  and  stuffy  atmosphere,  she  almost 
gasps  for  breath.  The  four  persons  gathered  within  that  lim- 
ited space  seem  to  overflow  its  dimensions,  and  a  strange  sensa- 
tion of  suffocation  attacks  her.  She  flings  wide  the  latticed 
window,  and,  leaning  out,  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Tonio. 
instinctively  divining  her  feeling,  goes  outside  immediately  ; 
presently  she  hears  his  voice  bidding  them  good-night  in  the 
garden  just  below.  She  leans  out  a  little  farther,  smiling  her 
response ;  as  she  does  so,  the  spray  of  honeysuckle  falls  from 
her  bodice  at  the  young  man's  feet.  Apparently  he  does  not 
perceive  it,  for  he  turns  away,  and,  a  moment  later,  she  hears 
him  whistling  as  he  walks  swiftly  down  the  road. 

Long  after  the  lattice  has  been  closed  for  the  night,  and 
Viola  is  dreaming  that  she  is  still  sitting  at  Miss  Crawford's 
feet,  Tonio  returns,  and,  groping  his  way  through  the  shadows, 
reaches  the  window  which  had  framed  the  fairest  vision  his 
eyes  had  ever  rested  upon.  That  night,  before  he  slept,  he 
gazed  long  and  with  renewed  tenderness  upon  the  picture  of 
his  mother.  When  he  closed  the  medallion  at  last,  a  faded 
bit  of  wild  honeysuckle  lay  between  the  lid  and  the  beautiful 
face  within. 


VIOLA.  121 


CHAPTER  VII. 

•WHAT   IS   LOVE? 

"  ARCHER. — What  is  love  ? 

"  CHERRY. — Love  is,  I  know  not  what.  It  comes,  I  know  not  how : 
goes,  I  know  not  where. 

"  ARCHER. — What  are  the  signs  and  tokens  of  that  passion  ? 

"CHERRY. — A  smiling  look,  a  stammering  tongue,  words  improbable, 
designs  impossible,  and  actions  impracticable." — Beaux'  Stratagem. 

AFTER  a  time  the  narrowness  of  the  rooms  and  the  lowness 
of  the  ceilings  in  her  old  home  cease  to  afflict  Viola  with  that 
sense  of  oppression  which  at  first  had  wellnigh  overcome  her. 

During  the  past  three  years  her  soul  has  grown  wings, — 
winp>  strong  enough  to  bear  her  far  beyond  the  cramped  con- 
ditions of  her  present  surroundings.  Mentally  and  physically 
her  organization  is  too  vigorously  sound  to  allow  her  to  pine 
or  fret  because  of  the  roughness  of  her  worsted  stockings  or 
the  blank  bareness  of  her  bedroom  walls. 

Without  even  an  inward  murmur,  she  resumes  her  daily 
avocations,  assisting  her  grandmother,  as  of  old,  in  her  house- 
hold cares,  taking  up  her  lace-making  and  embroidery,  visiting 
once  more  the  old  and  helpless  villagers,  gathering  into  her 
clean,  girl's  heart  all  the  brown-faced,  dark-eyed,  soil-grubbing 
babies  who  have  increased  and  multiplied  since  her  departure. 

Under  the  ignorance,  the  wanton,  lazy  immorality,  the  un- 
godly uncleanliness  of  these  peasants,  the  girl's  pure  eyes  dis- 
cover undreamt-of  capabilities,  dormant  intelligences,  a  pathos 
inexpressible. 

Through  the  garlic-reeking  atmosphere  the  faint  perfume 
from  the  violets  in  her  bodice  pierces  subtly,  and  before  the 
calm  wonder  of  the  clear  blue  eyes  the  embryo  lazzaroui  slink 
away  abashed. 

There  are  eyes — and  eyes.  To  some — not  unkindly  organs 
either — the  sight  of  destitution  is  repellent.  Their  poor  must 
r  11 


122  SOUCI. 

be  clean-washed,  and  picturesquely  patched  and  covered  ;  there 
must  be  no  revolting  exhibition  of  vice  or  suffering.  Many 
people  are  benevolently  inclined,  but  inclined  towards  decency, 
even  if  threadbare.  Like  Coriolanus,  they  cover  their  faces 
from  the  sight  of  the  wounds  they  dare  not  probe.  To  them 
rags  and  vermin  and  ill  smells  are  simply  intolerable.  They 
recoil  instinctively  from  painful  .and  vulgar  truth,  as  they 
shudder  and  turn  aside  from  one  of  Hogarth's  masterpieces. 
They  feel  that  his  awful,  tragic  delineations  exist  in  real  life, 
but  they  do  not  want  to  look  upon  them.  The  unrefinement 
and  coarseness  of  his  subjects  disgust  them.  Their  gaze  pierces 
not  beneath  the  repulsive  surface  to  that  terrible  intensity  of 
thought  and  feeling  underlying  their  vulgarity,  in  which  one 
may  find  innumerable  texts. 

Beneath  the  crust  of  superstitious  ignorance  which  had 
formed  upon  the  souls  of  those  about  her,  Viola  perceives  a 
childlike  simplicity,  a  careless  amiability,  from  which  her  in- 
finite tact  and  patience  bring  forth  good  work.  She  is  warmly 
welcomed  in  all  the  cottages,  and  finds  unwearying  delight  in 
her  self-appointed  missionary  labor.  Gradually  she  stirs  up 
the  men  and  women  out  of  their  supine  indolence,  and  washes 
the  faces,  spiritual  and  corporal,  of  their  children. 

Perhaps  she  is  not  altogether  orthodox  in  her  religious  in- 
struction, love  and  mercy  being  the  chief  attributes  of  the  Deity 
she  worships ;  but  no  doubt  they  are  all-sufficing. 

She  distributes  no  good  little  books  or  tracts  among  these 
untaught  heathen,  nor  does  she  quote  from  the  learned  igno- 
rance of  so-called  wiseacres  for  their  edification.  She  sings  to 
them  as  much  as  she  talks,  and  her  voice  is  fresh  and  true  and 
acceptable  to  their  understanding.  Nor  does  she  fail  to  tell 
them,  in  sweet,  low  tones,  helpful,  cheering  stories  from  the  life 
of  the  pure  Galilean.  She  does  not  madden  them  by  hurling 
denunciation  or  anathema  at  their  heads,  neither  does  she  scoff 
at  their  harmless  superstitions.  With  gentle  tact  she  raises 
each  soul  above  the  tinsel  and  paste  jewels  of  the  bambino  to 
the  living  Child,  grown  crucified  Man,  with  His  mother  at 
His  feet.  And  Viola  is  zealous  also  in  ministrations  no  less 
welcome, — in  nourishing  broths  and  refreshing  fruits  and 
drinks ;  in  flowers  for  a  sick-room  and  linen  for  a  new-born 
babe.  For  she  has  all  a  true  woman's  universality  of  sym- 
pathy,— her  helpfulness,  her  beguiling  winsomeness. 


VIOLA.  123 

Yet  Viola  is  not  devoid  of  feminine  weaknesses,  nor  of  the 
instinctive  hungering  of  her  sex  after  the  poetic,  the  imagina- 
tive, or  the  aesthetic.  Almost  all  women  are  innate  artists, 
and  crave  naturally  the  refinements  and  graces  of  life.  Even 
the  delicate  tints  and  sheeny  surfaces  of  their  outward  adorn- 
ment possess  a  certain  fascination  for  them,  and  they  take  a 
pleasure  in  the  braiding  and  arrangement  of  their  hair  not 
incompatible  with  the  spirit  of  Christianity. 

With  all  her  simplicity  of  nature  and  spirituality  of  mind, 
this  little  field-flower  shares  the  heritage  of  her  sisters  of  the 
garden  and  the  conservatory,  and  claims  kin  with  Browning's 
pomegranate, — 

.  .  .  .  "  Which,  if  cut  deep  down  the  middle, 
Shows  a  heart  within,  blood-tinctured  of  a  veined  humanity." 

To  Tonio  she  seems  a  little  more  and  a  little  less  than  this : 

he  thiuks  her  an  angel. 

******* 

Can  we  wonder  that  Souci's  pale  and  sorrowful  face — alas  ! 
already  fading,  through  the  lapse  of  years — grows  dim  and 
almost  forgotten  beside  this  radiant  vision  ?  And  so  it  comes 
to  pass  that  whilst  the  woman,  away  off  in  the  great  turbulent 
city,  wrestles  with  all  her  puny  strength  to  conquer  the  giant 
Knowledge,  the  man  for  whom  she  toils  to  fit  herself  presses 
to  his  lips  the  violet  which  his  scythe  always  spares,  and 
which  he  hides  in  the  bosom  from  whence  his  heart  is  slip- 
ping— slowly — surely — day  by  day. 


124  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
"LOVE'S  SWEET  BAIT  FROM  FEARFUL  HOOKS." 

"  It  is  an  old,  old  story, 
Yet  bideth  ever  new, 
And  he  to  whom  it  chanceth, 

It  breaks  his  heart  in  two." — HEINE. 

"  Sie  ist  vollkommen  und  sie  fehlet 
Darin  allein  dass  sie  mieh  liebt."  .... 

GOETHE. 

"  LlEBCHEN  !" 

"Ja  icohl!" 

"  He  is  waiting,  mein  Kindchen.  Antonio  has  been  waiting 
for  you  nigh  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  So  I  Then  bid  him  wait  another  quarter  !"  laughs  Viola, 
giving  the  waving  tendrils  of  her  sunny  hair  one  more  touch 
beneath  her  wide  straw  hat,  and  taking  a  last  gratified  survey 
of  herself  in  the  little  cracked  mirror  which  sadly  distorts  her 
peach-blossom  face.  Then  brimming  over  with  fun  and  mis- 
chief, her  joyous  heart  dimpling  her  cheeks  with  smiles  and 
her  high  spirits  dancing  in  the  blue  eyes,  she  runs  down  the 
stairs,  and  greets  Tonio  with  a  charming  little  air  of  coquetry 
which  has  but  lately  added  itself  to  her  attractions. 

He  advances  to  meet  her  with  a  proud,  fond  look  which 
has  something  of  the  timid  uncertainty  that  always  accom- 
panies true  and  tender  feeling.  A  man  who  loves  with  his 
whole  soul,  handles  his  passion  before  its  object  as  gently  as 
he  would  a  gorgeous-hued  butterfly,  which  he  scarcely  dares 
breathe  upon,  knowing  that  a  rough  movement,  the  least 
ungentle  touch,  would  wound  it  to  the  death. 

"  Were  you  very  impatient,  Tonio?"  Viola  asks,  demurely, 
as  they  wa;k  down  the  little  garden  together. 

"  I  am  always  impatient  when  I  am  waiting  for  you,  made- 
moiselle. It  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  I  was  not,"  he 
replies,  opening  the  gate  for  her  to  pass  through. 


VIOLA.  125 

Their  conversation  is  generally  a  polyglot  mixture  of 
French,  Italian,  and  German.  Touio,  although  he  readily 
acquired  his  mother-tongue,  relapses  unconsciously  into  the 
more  accustomed  French,  and  Viola,  speaking  each  with  equal 
facility,  follows  his  lead,  although  occasionally  to  his  mysti- 
fication she  breaks  forth  in  German. 

To-day  is  a  holiday,  a  sweet,  hay-scented,  bee-droning  sum- 
mer day,  and  Tonio's  employer — the  largest  land-owner  and 
farmer  in  the  valley — has  given  him  permission  to  enjoy  it  as 
seems  best  to  him.  It  seems  very  much  best  to  him  to  spend 
it  in  a  shady  nook  far  up  the  mountain-side  with  Viola. 

This  adventurous  young  lady  has  undertaken  the  arduous 
task  of  educating  her  rustic  admirer,  and  after  much  tribu- 
lation has  succeeded  in  teaching  him  the  rudiments  of  the 
French  and  Italian  languages.  To-day  she  carries  a  well- 
thumbed  book  under  her  arm,  from  which  he  has  derived 
much  valuable  instruction,  while  from  the  open  page  of  his 
young  teacher's  guileless  face  and  pure  heart  he  has  learned 
to  read  more  eagerly  still. 

A  year  has  passed  since  Viola  smiled  Tonio's  heart  away  at 
their  first  meeting  in  the  meadow,  and  although  she  has  seen 
him  daily, — accompanying  her  father  and  himself  in  all  their 
twilight  rambles, — it  was  not  until  a  few  weeks  ago  that  she 
suspected  the  nature  of  his  feeling  for  her.  How  or  when 
the  fact  at  length  revealed  itself  to  her  consciousness  she 
scarcely  knew.  There  had  been  no  word  or  action  to  mark 
the. sudden  enlightenment.  Never  had  the  respectful  defer- 
ence, the  -shy  tenderness  of  his  manner  varied  since  the  first 
word  he  had  addressed  to  her.  A  woman  is  gifted  with  a 
power  of  divination  in  these  matters  which  suggests  sorcery. 
Viola  knew  certainly  that  the  great  treasure  of  a  man's  earnest 
love  lay  humbly  at  her  feet. 

Her  first  sensation  after  this  discovery  had  been  one  of 
amusement,  followed  swiftly  by  a  feeling — which  he  would 
have  deprecated  even  more  had  he  known  of  it — of  pity. 
Later,  as  the  sweetness  of  this  unswerving  devotion  appealed 
to  her  more  widely,  there  entered  into  her  the  evil  genius  of  a 
woman's  nature,  the  desire  to  test  to  its  utmost  limit  that  de- 
votion by  the  instinctive  wiles  and  artless  coquetries  which  lie 
dormant  in  every  feminine  heart.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the 
sudden  development  of  unsuspected  witcheries  charmed  the 


126  SOUCI. 

unfortunate  youth  into  a  more  abject  idolatry,  and  that  Viola 
found  in  this  dangerous  amusement  a  gentle  stimulus  which 
filled  her  cup  of  contentment  to  the  brim. 

"Did  you  bring  Telemaque  in  your  pocket?"  she  asks, 
lazily  leaning  back  against  the  moss-covered  trunk" of  a  great 
tree  and  letting  her  French  grammar  slip  from  her  hand  and 
hide  itself  among  the  high  grass  at  her  feet.  "  We  have  had 
two  good  hours  of  study,  and  you  have  done  pretty  well.  Now 
you  shall  have  your  reward  :  I  will  read  to  you." 

Then  as  Tonio  joyfully  composes  himself  to  listen,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  where  the  shadow  of  the  flickering 
green  leaves  overhead  falls  tantalizingly,  Viola  takes  up  the 
thread  of  Telemaque's  interesting  adventures,  and  in  her  clear 
young  voice  impresses  them  forever  and  forever  on  the  memory 
of  the  man  beside  her. 

Another  hour  flies  by,  and  Viola  closes  the  book  with  a 
little  half-stifled  yawn.  "  It  is  too  warm,"  she  says,  "  and  the 
dragon-flies  make  me  giddy,  and  the  buzz,  buzz,  buzz  of  these 
energetic  gnats  sends  me  to  sleep.  Tonio,"  pointing  her  finger 
at  him  suddenly,  "  you  have  been  asleep  !"  She  knows  per- 
fectly that  his  wide-open  eyes  have  never  left  her  face,  but 
she  is  a  woman,  and  she  longs  to  hear  his  indignant  denial  of 
the  accusation. 

"  Asleep!  Ah,  Viola,  you  know  that  I  keep  all  the  sleep 
I  can  get  for  the  hours  when  I  cannot  catch  even  a  glimpse 
of  you !" 

"  And  then  ?"  she  asks,  with  an  upward  glance  of  the  blue 
eyes.  "  During  those  hours  are  you  very  miserable  ?" 

"  Not  always.  Sometimes  I  dream  of  you,"  he  answers, 
smiling. 

"  Bah  !  Tonio.  Do  you  know  I  believe  you  are  becoming 
sentimental  ?  You  do  not  know  what  that  means,  now ;  do 
you?" 

He  shakes  his  head.  Quickly  she  turns  the  pages  of 
Telemaque. 

"  It  means  that  you  will  lose  your  appetite  and  grow  very 
thin  and  pale ;  that  you  will  let  your  hair  grow  long  on  your 
shoulders  and  never  brush  it ;  that  you  will  wander  about  all 
night  sighing  to  the  moon  ;  that  you  will  grow  very  tiresome 
and  stupid,"  she  concludes,  laughing  a  little,  but  with  a  slight 


VIOLA.  127 

earnestness  underlying  her  mirth.  In  the  uttermost  depths 
of  her  heart  she  is  growing  a  trifle — just  a  trifle — weary  of 
this  unfluctuating,  never-varying  worship,  of  which  she  is  the 
ungrateful  object. 

"  If  he  would  only  grow  a  little  impatient  sometimes,"  she  is 
saying  to  herself,  "  or  by  any  chance  bring  another  expression 
into  his  eyes  than  that  half-frightened,  loving  one ;  if  he 
would  only  contradict  me  flatly  now  and  then,  or  refuse  to 
obey  me  blindly  in  everything,  he  would  not  be  so  amiable, 
and  I  should  not  like  him  so  well,  but  he  would  be  more  in- 
teresting." These  thoughts  pass  through  her  mind  as  she 
searches  through  her  book  eagerly,  whilst  he  strips  the 
leaves  from  a  twig  he  has  cut  from  a  sapling  near  him,  digest- 
ing meanwhile  her  last  words.  Presently  he  looks  up. 

"  What  is  the  cure  for  this  complaint,  Viola,  in  case  I 
should  be  afflicted  with  it  ?  You  have  a  cure  for  all  the  cot- 
tagers' various  ailments,  perhaps  you  would  have  a  remedy  for 
mine." 

One  of  her  wishes  is  granted.  In  his  eyes  there  is  no 
longer  the  half-frightened,  loving  look  :  there  is  a  little  glint 
of  wickedness  which  delights  her. 

"  Ah,  no,"  she  says,  with  an  arch  look ;  "  I  am  afraid  you 
would  have  to  suffer  without  relief.  Rheumatism  and  lum- 
bago I  have  studied  from  infancy,  but  sentiment  is  something 
beyond  my  experience." 

"Then  I  promise  you  I  shall  not  fall  a  victim  to  it,"  he  an- 
swers, promptly,  flinging  away  his  twig  and  cutting  another. 
"  I  am  not  very  thin  or  pale  yet,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  not 
lost  my  appetite.  I  am  afraid  my  hair  is  rather  untidy."  He 
tries  vainly  to  smooth  it  by  running  his  fingers  through  the 
luxuriant  dark  waves  which  do  not  disguise  the  well-formed 
head.  "  As  for  sighing  at  the  moon,  oh,  Viola,  do  you  think 
even  you  could  make  me  so  silly  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  says,  with  a  mvtine  look ;  "  other  men 
do  it.  I  have  read  it  in  books  ;  why  should  not  you  ?" 

"  Because,"  Tonio  is  speaking  gravely  now, — "  because  I 
should  not  think  I  was  doing  my  love  any  honor  by  making  it 
ridiculous." 

"And  why  not?"  she  answers,  maliciously,  but  coloring  a 
lovely  rose-tint  over  cheek  and  throat.  "  It  is  a  proof  of  feel- 
ing. Listen  to  this :  '  II  <§tait  devenu  maigre ;  ses  yeux  creux 


128  SOVCL 

£taient  pleins  d'un  feu  deVorant ;  a  le  voir  pale,  abattu,  et 
defigure  on  aura  cru  que  ce  n'etait  point  Telemaque.  Sa 
beaute,  son  enjouement,  sa  noble  fierte  s'enfuyaient  loin  de 

lui '  "*  Her  voice  falters  ;  for  some  unaccountable  reason 

a  strange  timidity  overtakes  her  ;  sbe  dares  not  raise  her  eyes, 
feeling  those  of  Tonio  fixed  steadfastly  upon  her  blushing  face. 
He  takes  the  book  from  her  passive  hand,  and  turning  the 
pages,  reads  in  his  turn  these  lines  to  her :  "  '  Le  cruel  amour 
pour  tourmenter  les  mortels  fait  qu'on  aime  guere  la  personne 
dont  on  est  aime.'  "f  Viola  feels  the  sadness  in  his  voice  and 
the  tender  yearning  in  his  eyes  as  they  turn  wistfully  towards 
her,  asking  that  question  mutely  which  agitates  the  entire 
world  of  men  at  one  epoch  or  another  of  their  lives, — but  she 
makes  never  a  sign. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  moment  more  pro- 
pitious for  the  solving  of  the  doubt  which  torments  Tonio 
than  the  present ;  but  do  not  such  moments  invariably  slip 
through  the  hour-glass  of  Time  unseized  upon  by  our  finite 
intelligences  ? 

"  Will  you  not  read  another  chapter  or  two  ?"  he  asks,  at 
last,  in  his  ordinary  voice ;  and,  as  she  raises  her  eyes,  she 
meets  his,  full  of  dangerous  love-light  still. 

"  No,"  she  answers,  shortly ;  a  sensation  of  disappointment 
she  does  not  understand  making  her  a  trifle  resentful. 

"  Then  I  shall  read  to  you,"  Tonio  says,  quietly ;  and, 
with  a  little  smile  on  his  lips,  he  turns  to  the  confession  of 
Telemachus'  love  for  Antiope :  "  Ce  qui  me  touche  en  elle 
c'est  son  silence,  sa  modestie,  sa  retrait,  son  travail  assidu,  son 
Industrie  pour  les  ouvrages  de  laine  et  de  broderie "| 

"  But  you  are  not  reading  at  all !"  cries  Yiola>  interrupting 
this  catalogue  of  virtues  with  a  laugh.  "  You  know  this  by 
heart !'  And  she  looks  at  him  with  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. 


*  "He  had  become  emaciated;  his  hollow  eyes  were  filled  with  con- 
suming fire ;  seeing  him  so  pale,  so  despondent,  so  changed,  one  could 
not  realize  that  it  was  Telemachus.  His  beauty,  his  joyous  spirit,  his 
noble  bearing,  had  fled  from  him " 

f  "  Cruel  Love,  to  torment  mortals,  decrees  that  they  shall  seldom  love 
those  who  love  them." 

J"What  attracts  me  to  her  is, — her  silence,  her  modesty,  her  re- 
serve, her  assiduous  industry,  her  fondness  for  needle-work,  for  em- 
broidery  " 


VIOLA.  129 

"Yes,  I  know  it  by  heart,"  he  says.  "I  have  read  it  so 

often,  Viola;  it  is  so  like "  At  this  instant  they  are 

startled  by  a  sudden  sharp  report  which  rings  out  through  the 
silent  forest  and  is  reverberated  by  the  surrounding  mountains. 
Tonio  springs  to  his  feet,  exclaiming, — 

"  It  is  higher  up  the  mountain  !  That  was  no  rifle-shot, 
— it  was  a  pistol ;  it  may  be  a  signal  of  distress  !  Wait  here 
for  me ;  I  shall  not  be  gone  long !"  Before  she  can  reply, 
he  has  bounded  up  the  steep  bridle-path  and  disappeared. 

Wondering  somewhat,  but  scarcely  disturbed  by  the  not 
unusual  occurrence  of  a  chamois  hunter  lost  in  the  forest,  the 
young  girl  takes  up  her  book  once  more,  and,  with  the  color 
deepening  again  in  her  cheek,  seeks  the  episode  of  which 
Antiope  is  the  heroine. 

For,  as  I  have  said,  Viola  was  that  most  delicious  compound 
whereof  the  poet  sings, — that  suggestion  of 

.  .  .  .  "  Sweet-brier  and  early  May, 

Of  fresh,  cool,  pure  air  of  opening  day; 

Like  the  gay  lark  sprung  from  the  glittering  dew; 

An  angel,  yet — a  very  woman  too  !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MEPHISTO'S   MISSTEP. 
"  Then  comes  the  change,  the  check,  the  fall !" 

.  ..."  On  pain  of  death  let  no  man  name  Death  to  me ;  it  is  a  word 
infinitely  terrible!" 

"  I  SAY,  Gaston  !  Lend  a  hand  here  !  This  looks  bad, — 
very  bad  !  I  am  afraid  master  has  done  for  himself  this  time  1 
So — gently,  now.  Ah,  God  help  us  !  he  is  dead!" 

A  genuine  groan  bursts  from  the  lips  of  Lyster  Rawdon's 
man-servant  as,  with  the  aid  of  his  companion,  he  drags  his 
young  master's  limbs  free  from  those  of  a  fine  English  hunter, 
who  lies  a  huddled  heap  of  snorting  agony  close  by. 
F* 


130  SOUCL 

Raising  the  apparently  lifeless  head  upon  his  knee,  Jenkins 
gazes  mournfully  at  the  pallid  features  which  are  fast  assuming 
the  rigidity  of  death.  The  face,  upturned  to  the  sky, — young, 
beautiful,  with  something  heroic  in  the  classic  lines  of  the  head 
which  the  close-cropped  auburn  hair  discovers, — with  the  clear- 
cut,  beardless  lips, — laughter-prone,  full-curved  lips, — and  the 
ample  gold-fringed  eyelids,  which  look  so  strangely  white  in 
contrast  with  the  sun-kissed  paleness  of  the  rest  of  the  face, — 
is  that  of  a  young  god,  stricken  unto  death  in  the  fulness  and 
joyousness  of  life,  perishing  with  the  goblet  at  his  lips,  with 
the  vine- clusters,  unwithered  in  a  single  leaf,  crowning  his 
temples  still. 

Surely,  Jenkins  thinks,  a  pitiful  sight ;  a  sight  which  de- 
prives him  momentarily  of  his  wonted  good  sense  and  energy. 

Gaston,  the  Swiss  guide,  however,  retains  possession  of  such 
mental  faculties  as  nature  has  bestowed  upon  him,  and  pro- 
duces a  brandy-flask.  Finding  this  remedy  of  no  avail,  he 
restores  it  to  his  pocket,  and,  casting  himself  face  downward 
upon  the  earth,  listens  intently  for  the  sound  of  running 
water.  Presently  he  disappears  like  a  flash,  to  return  in  a 
few  moments  with  his  Tyrolean  hat  brimful  of  cold  water, 
which  he  dashes  at  intervals  into  the  ghastly  face  upon  which 
Jenkins's  eyes  are  gloomily  fixed. 

"  All  the  springs  in  the  Alps  wouldn't  be  of  any  use  here," 
he  says,  despondingly.  "  Are  you  so  dumb  that  you  can't  see 
when  a  man's  dead  ?"  And  the  imperturbable  Briton  almost 
chokes  as  he  stifles  a  sob  in  his  throat. 

Gaston  eyes  him  contemptuously.  Kneeling  down  beside 
the  insensible  form,  he  tears  open  the  waistcoat  and  thrusts 
his  hand  under  the  delicate  cambric.  "  Mais  sacristi  !  que  tu 
es  sot !  va !  his  heart  beats !  Loosen  his  neck-tie  and  stop 
blubbering!  We'll  soon  bring  him  round!"  he  exclaims, 
wrathfully. 

But  no  sign  of  returning  animation  rewards  their  exer- 
tions ;  the  pallid  face,  the  rigid  limbs,  the  scarce-fluttering 
heart  alter  not  one  shade  of  their  awful  meaning.  The  two 
men  look  at  each  other  hopelessly.  The  shadows  are  length- 
ening visibly  about  them  ;  something  must  be  done  before  the 
twilight  overtakes  them.  Jenkins  pulls  himself  together  and 
assumes  command. 

"  You  must  take  one  of  the  mules,  Gaston,  and  gallop  to  the 


VIOLA.  131 

nearest  town,  or  village,  or  castle, — it  don't  matter  which, — 
and  demand  assistance.  You  speak  the  language  better  than 
I,"  he  modestly  adds,  his  acquaintance  with  any  other  than  his 
native  tongue  being  extremely  limited;  ''besides,  I  cannot 
leave  master.  For  heaven's  sake,  get  off!  lose  no  more  time!" 
The  Swiss  is  about  to  throw  himself  upon  the  better-looking 
of  the  two  patient  animals  who  are  enjoying  their  unaccustomed 
rot  and  placidly  cropping  the  herbage  about  them  at  a  little 
distance,  when  Jenkins  calls  out,  "  Leave  the  brandy,  will 
you  !"  And,  taking  a  small  revolver  from  his  inside  pocket, 
he  adds,  pointing  to  the  prostrate  horse,  "  Put  a  bullet  through 
that  poor  creature's  brain  before  you  go,  for  the  Lord's  sake ! 
I  can't  stand  seeing  him  suffer  any  longer !  It's  a  regular 
smash-up  for  him,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes :  his  case  is  hopeless,  pauvre  diuble  /"  replies  Gaston, 
sorrowfully.  And,  taking  the  weapon,  he  strides  over  to  the 
agonized  brute.  One  shot,  and  the  convulsed  limbs  relax,  the 
beautiful  head  falls  lifeless  on  the  earth. 

"  I  fancy  we  could  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Val  d' Anzasca  from 
here,"  his  master  had  said  a  moment  before  the  accident,  and 
had  turned  his  horse  abruptly  off  the  safe,  beaten  track  of  the 
8implon  Pass  to  plunge  down  a  precipitous  bridle-path  which 
offered  the  stimulant  of  danger  in  contrast  to  the  monotonous 
jog-trot  of  the  road.  It  was  then  that  Mephisto  had  made  that 
unfortunate  misstep  which  cost  him  and  his  owner  dear. 

Before  the  echoes  of  that  merciful  shot  have  died  away, 
Gaston  is  in  the  saddle,  galloping  his  sure-footed,  mountain-bred 
animal  fearlessly  down  the  rugged  steep  past  the  brook  whence 
he  had  fetched  the  water  and  where  the  notes  of  a  violin  had 
been  wafted  towards  him  from  the  valley  below.  At  a  turn 
in  the  path  he  encounters  Tonio  mounting  rapidly.  Without 
slackening  his  pace,  Gaston,  with  frantic  gesticulation ,  calls 
out,  "  Higher  up  !  help  wanted  !  man  killed  !''  and  dashes  on, 
— on  past  the  leafy  nook  where  Viola  sits  absorbed  in  Tele- 
maque's  confession,  terrifying  her  by  his  wild  looks  and  break- 
neck descent, — on,  until  he  draws  rein  at  last,  in  front  of  the 
primitive  inn  where  the  peasantry  of  Vogogna  are  enjoying 
their  evening  meal  al  fresco.  Tben  ensues  a  mad  confusion 
of  tongues,  followed  by  a  rapid  donning  of  jackets,  and,  with 
an  improvised  litter,  half  a  dozen  men  have  started  to  the 


132  SOUCI. 

scene  of  the  accident,  headed  by  Gaston,  who  has  hastily 
refreshed  himself  by  a  flask  of  red  wine  thoughtfully  pressed 
upon  him  by  the  landlord. 

"  Of  course  they  will  bring  his  Eccellenza  to  the  Corona," 
lie  splutters,  brandishing  a  toasting-fork  with  which  he  had 
been  preparing  the  polenta  for  his  customers.  "  I  will  have 
a  room  prepared  immediately.  Maria  !  Luigi !  what  are  you 
standing  staring  about?  Go  within  and  make  ready  for  his 
Eccellenza !"  And  losing  his  head  completely  at  the  pros- 
pective vision  of  English  gold,  which  the  death  of  an  English 
noble  in  his  house  would  shower  upon  him,  he  yields  un- 
limited credit  on  the  score  of  vin  ordinaire  to  the  excited 
villagers  outside. 

To  the  little  man's  indignant  astonishment  the  gentle  voice 
of  Heinrich  Hablemann  is  now  heard,  mildly  assuring  him 
that  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  stranger  shall  be  brought  to 
his  cottage,  being  nearer  the  high-road,  and  the  hartsfrau 
understanding  better  what  should  be  done  than  all  the  village 
put  together.  ;'And  you  know  well,  my  friend,"  he  adds, 
calmly  regarding  the  incensed  host  of  the  Corona,  "  what  with 
rats  and  other  vermin,  you  have  not  a  room  in  your  house  fit 
for  a  man  to  live  in,  much  less  to  die  in."  Then  amid  shouts 
of  laughter  Heinrich  turns  away,  with  his  violin  tucked  under 
his  arm,  his  serenity  absolutely  unruffled  by  the  storm  of 
vituperative  abuse,  interlarded  with  fierce  Italian  expletives, 
which  bursts  forth  from  the  irate  inn-keeper,  who  dances 
about  in  his  paper  cap  and  greasy  apron  in  impotent  fury, 
vowing  vengeance  upon  this  cracked  fiddler  who  dares  to 
intercept  his  English  custom. 

The  villagers,  with  one  accord,  side  with  Heinrich.  They 
know  how  decided  a  contrast  exists  between  the  immaculately- 
neat  German  cottage  and  the  filthy  little  inn  ;  and  then  it  is  a 
conceded  fact  in  the  village  that  no  one  understands  laying 
out  a  body  as  beautifully  as  the  old  Frau,  who  enjoys  perform- 
ing the  office  for  even  the  humblest  of  the  inhabitants.  Yes; 
she  certainly  deserves  to  try  her  hand  on  this  English  milord. 

Heinrich,  having  forewarned  his  mother  of  the  expected 
arrival,  saunters  slowly  in  the  direction  whence  the  litter- 
bearers  are  already  returning  with  their  sad  burden.  As  they 
draw  nearer,  he  is  surprised  to  see  Antonio  at  the  head  of  the 
cortege,  and  his  Liebchen  walking,  with  pale  cheek  and  down- 


VIOLA.  133 

oast  eye,  beside  him.  Over  the  face  of  the  injured  man  is 
spread  a  white  silk  handkerchief  in  whose  corners  are  em- 
broidered bouquets  of  violets.  Heinrich  recognizes  it  as  one 
given  to  Viola  by  the  Contessa,  .which  she  sometimes  wears 
about  her  neck  on  holidays. 

At  the  sound  of  many  feet  tramping  up  the  garden-walk 
Frau  Hablemann  comes  out  and  issues  her  orders  in  the  most 
guttural  Italian,  rendered  emphatic  by  her  energetic  move- 
ments and  imperative  will.  The  sitting-room  has  been  speedily 
transformed  into  a  comfortable  bedroom;  therein  the  helpless 
burden  is  soon  carried,  and  the  cottage  immediately  cleared  of 
all  intruders.  Viola,  about  to  escape  to  her  own  little  bed- 
room, is  arrested  by  the  sharp  voice  of  her  grandmother : 
"  Liebchen  !  Liebchen !  Where  is  she?  Fetch  me  another 
pillow,  and  be  quick  !" 

The  girl  flies  to  do  her  bidding,  but,  reappearing  with  the 
desired  article,  hesitates  on  the  threshold,  timid,  trembling, 
awed  by  the  sight  before  her.  There  lie  the  broad-chested 
form,  the  long,  lithe  limbs,  the  statuesque  head  with  its  death- 
like face.  She  dares  not  approach  it. 

"  Come  in  !"  cries  the  old  lady.  "  What  ails  you,  child  ? 
You  are  as  white  as  though  you  had  seen  your  dappelg&nger!" 

"  I — I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  a  dead  person,  grandmother  !" 
she  ventures,  imploringly. 

"  Then  don't  look  at  him,"  returns  the  practical  Frau. 
'•  Who  says  he  is  dead?  He's  no  more  dead  than  I  am ! 
Here !  don't  be  a  goose ;  hold  this  basin, — so, — or,"  as  she 
observes  the  irrepressible  shudder  that  passes  over  the  girl, 
"  bathe  his  head  with  that  vinegar,  and  Heinrich  shall  assist 
me." 

The  air  is  heavy  with  the  disagreeable  odor  of  burnt 
feathers,  which  had  been  of  no  avail  (and  small  wonder:  who 
would  return  to  a  life  so  perfumed  ?),  and  as  Viola  takes  the 
sponge  in  her  reluctant  hand  she  turns  faint  and  giddy  at  the 
touch  of  that  face. 

Heinrich  has  vanished.  Observing  that  his  duty  consisted 
in  holding  the  pewter  basin  into  which  the  bright  young 
blood  was  to  gush  forth  from  the  rigid  arm  at  the  application 
of  the  good  Frau's  lancet,  ho  has  fled  incontinently,  motion- 
ing Jenkins  to  take  his  place.  Jenkins,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  thinks  him  mad. 

12 


134  SOUCL 

"  So  /"  sighs  the  Frau,  with  intense  satisfaction,  as,  after  a 
minute,  the  closed  eyelids  tremble,  then  slowly  open,  disclosing 
the  bluest  of  eyes  beneath.  "  Ach,  Hebe  Gottl  he  will  live  !" 
And  she  restores  to  its  case  the  merciful  instrument  which 
has  rarely  failed  in  its  mission  during  the  last  thirty  years, — 
used  indiscriminately  for  man  and  beast. 

Jenkins,  restraining  a  natural  desire  to  fall  on  the  old 
woman's  neck  and  express  his  gratitude  by  an  honest  John- 
Bullish  hug,  produces  the  brandy-flask, — his  faith  in  that 
restorative  reviving, — and  at  a  sign  of  approval  from  the  doc- 
tress,  who  is  binding  up  the  arm,  pours  a  few  drops  between 
his  master's  lips. 

"  Liebchen,  see  to  that  bouillon  in  the  kitchen.  I  must 
have  it  in  fifteen  minutes ;  and  send  your  father  here,  that  we 
may  get  this  poor  boy  to  bed  and  find  out  what  bones  are 
broken." 

Heinrich  returns  reluctantly,  and  impedes,  to  the  best  of 
his  ability,  the  diligent  search  for  broken  bones ;  the  old  lady 
making  her  investigations  tediously  thorough,  her  patient 
thinks.  The  injury  inflicted  by  that  unlucky  misstep  of  poor 
Mephisto's,  when  he  sent  his  master  head-foremost  upon  the 
rocks  and  stumbled  down  upon  him,  is  found  to  be  concussion 
of  the  brain  and  a  score  of  bruises  and  scratches,  but  no  other 
internal  or  external  damage. 

As  soon  as  the  patient  has  been  fed  and  made  comfortable 
for  the  night,  the  household  Hablemann  composes  itself  to 
slumber, — Jenkins  and  the  Swiss  guide  having  been  dis- 
patched to  the  Corona.  The  good  Frau,  hideous  in  a  broad- 
frilled  cap  and  bed-gown,  nods  throughout  the  night  in  an 
arm-chair  close  by  the  bedside  of  her  charge. 


VIOLA.  135 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  VIOLA,  I   HAVE   BEEN   THINKING." 
"  Death  !     What  do'st  ?     Oh,  hold  thy  hand !" 

BEFORE  the  night-light  has  fizzed  its  life  away  in  its  cup  of 
oil,  or  the  embers  on  the  hearth  have  grown  cold,  the  bruised 
body  of  the  unfortunate  stranger  tosses  restlessly  on  its  couch, 
and  the  blue  eyes  have  become  wild  in  the  delirium  of  fever, 
which  the  Frau's  most  potent  tisanes  are  powerless  to  control. 

A  physician,  promptly  summoned  from  Domo  d'Ossola  by 
the  perturbed  Jenkins,  the  following  day,  shakes  his  head 
gravely,  forbids  the  removal  of  the  sufferer,  and,  with  in- 
numerable shruggings  and  brow-liftings,  expressive  of  dire 
anxiety  of  mind,  suggests  the  propriety  of  notifying  the  friends 
of  his  Excellency  of  his  danger.  « 

From  obeying  this  last  injunction  Jenkins  wisely  forbears. 
The  sole  living  relative  Lyster  Rawdon  possesses  is  his  uncle, 
Lord  Harrowdale,  who  during  the  latter  years  of  his  allotted 
threescore-and-ten  has  been  a  confirmed  victim  to  gout,  unable 
for  weeks  to  move  out  of  his  wheel-chair,  and  throughout 
those  weeks  a  terror  to  his  household  and  his  neighborhood. 
A  childless  widower,  with  a  large  estate  at  his  disposal,  he  natu- 
rally leans  somewhat  affectionately  towards  the  only  son  of  a 
favorite  sister  (brothers  he  had  none).  The  boy's  parents  had 
been  obliging  enough  to  die,  and  leave  the  education  and 
management  of  their  son  exclusively  in  the  hands  of  his  uncle. 
With  the  exception  of  himself,  Lord  Harrowdale  had  loved 
nothing  better  in  all  those  seventy  years  than  the  bright-faced 
boy  who  had  grown  into  such  a  promising  man.  Could  he 
have  seen  him  now,  with  parched  lips  and  mad-straining  eyes, 
gasping  under  that  lowly  roof,  out  of  reach  of  the  luxuries 
and  comforts,  the  medical  skill  and  professional  nursing  with 
which  science  provides  alleviation  for  such  ills  as  are  the  heri- 
tage of  flesh,  there  would  have  been  an  immense  amount  of 


136  SOUCI. 

impious  questioning  of  Providence,  a  great  deal  of  profane  wrath 
expended  upon  the  irascible  old  man's  servants,  and  upon  those 
subdued  acquaintances  who  visited  him  cautiously, — keeping  a 
vigilant  eye  upon  the  knotted  stick  in  his  right  hand,  and 
holding  themselves  at  a  discreet  distance,  whilst  they  avoided 
contumacious  discourse, — none  of  which  would  have  benefited 
in  the  slightest  degree  the  youth  upon  whom  his  hopes  were 
centred. 

With  the  stoical  resignation  of  a  philosopher  whose  "  hups 
and  downs"  have  been  of  sufficient  variety  to  warrant  a  certain 
amount  of  blaseism,  Jenkins  resolves  to  convey  no  tidings  of 
the  accident  to  his  lordship,  at  least  until  something  of  a  more 
definite  nature  can  be  communicated ;  he  shudders  to  think 
what  that  may  be. 

In  the  mean  time  he  establishes  himself  as  comfortably  as 
possible  at  the  Corona;  pays  and  dismisses  Gaston ;  writes  to 
the  bankers  to  forward  his  master's  correspondence,  and  shares 
the  vigils  of-  the  old  hau&frau,  awaiting  patiently  the  issue 
of  the  struggle,  which  shall  be  decided  only  after  a  hard  fight 
over  every  inch  of  ground  youth  and  a  good  constitution  offers. 

Days  and  nights  pass  away,  and  still  the  fever  rages,  coursing 
madly  through  the  veins  which  had  throbbed  so  lately  with 
the  purple  of  life's  youthful  exuberance, — scorching  with  its 
fierce  breath  the  fair  beauty  and  laying  waste  with  riotous 
prodigality  the  reserve  force  upon  which  the  young  man  prided 
himself. 

Daily  Jenkins's  face  grows  more  lugubrious,  the  doctor's 
head-shakings  wax  more  ominous,  and  the  Frau  has  ceased  to 
make  application  to  her  herb-cupboard,  in  despair  of  finding 
an  antidote  to  this  poison-fever  which  thwarts  her  so  persist- 
ently. 

Days  pass,  and  through  the  gloom  gathering  about  the  sick 
man's  pillow  no  ray  of  hope  now  pierces  :  the  fever  has  at  last 
spent  itself,  and  the  patient  is  sinking  rapidly. 

The  rustle  of  the  Death- Angel's  wings  arouses  them  all  to  a 
self-reproachful  panic.  They  bemoan  the  inexperience  of  the 
medical  man;  the  impossibility  of  procuring  other  advice;  the 
length  of  time  which  must  elapse  before  friends  can  be  sum- 
.moned  upon  whom  the  dying  man  would  fain  once  more  rest 
his  languid  eyes  ere  he  goes  hence.  Jenkins  feels  the  respon- 
sibility burdensome  upon  his  shoulders ;  he  is  convinced  that 


VIOLA.  137 

he  can  never  meet  Lord  Harrowdale  with  the  grievous  tidings 
of  his  boy's  death,  and  importunes  the  Frau  ceaselessly  on  the 
subject  of  beef-tea  and  brandy  wherewith  to  stave  off  the  dread 
Destroyer. 

Viola  sits  stitching  in  her  little  bedroom,  when  she  is  not 
busy  in  the  kitchen,  oppressed  and  saddened  by  the  awful 
shadow  blotting  out  the  sunshine  all  about  her,  wondering 
always  at  the  strange  fate  that  had  brought  this  poor  man  away 
from  country,  friends,  and  kindred  to  die  where  no  familiar 
face  or  voice  or  touch  might  soothe  his  parting  moments. 

Hcinrich  goes  stealthily  into  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  gazes 
sadly  upon  the  wasted  form,  the  transparent  face  and  hands, 
and  steals  quietly  out  again, — out  along  the  valley,  sending 
back  on  the  soft  spring  air  the  saddest  and  sweetest  of  requiems. 

During  all  this  trying  time  Antonio  had  been  most  useful 
and  kind.  At  Viola's  faintest  suggestion  he  would  scour  the 
country  for  miles  to  procure  such  comforts  or  necessaries  as 
were  wanted  for  the  sufferer.  He  invented  shades  for  the 
windows  of  the  sick-room,  that  the  garish  rays  of  the  sun 
should  not  torture  his  bloodshot  eyes ;  he  carried  water  daily 
in  a  pail  from  a  mountain-stream,  cold  and  pellucid  as  ice ;  he 
sat  and  watched  many  a  night  in  the  little  kitchen,  ready  at  a 
moment's  notice  to  ride  over  to  Domo  d'Ossola  for  the  doctor, 
or  to  take  Jenkins's  post  beside  his  master  when  fatigue  had 
overcome  his  stoutest  resolution. 

At  last  the  day  came  when  the  physician  announced  that  his 
patient  could  not  survive  twenty-four  hours. 

It  had  been  a  close,  sultry  June  day,  but  towards  evening 
a  fresh,  sweet  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and  the  cottage  doors  and 
windows  had  been  set  wide  open  to  catch  all  they  could  of  its 
refreshment. 

The  twenty-four  hours  have  passed,  and  Tonio,  sitting  alone 
in  the  little  porch  below,  is  beginning  to  doubt  the  infallibility 
of  medical  judgment,  when  he  is  startled  by  the  sound  of 
Viola's  light,  swift  footsteps  along  the  passage  towards  the 
kitchen.  "  She  is  coming  to  tell  me  all  is  over  !"  is  his  first 
thought ;  then,  as  she  comes  out  to  him,  with  a  bright,  glad 
look  on  her  face.on  which  the  starlight  falls,  he  knows  before 
she  speaks  that  hope  has  dawned  again  in  the  hearts  of  those 
weary  watchers  by  the  sick  man's  bed. 

"  Tonio,"  she  says,  speaking  eagerly  but  in  a  whisper,  "  he 
12* 


138  SOUCI. 

will  not  die  after  all !  .1  came  to  tell  you !  I  could  not  go 
to  bed  with  that  dreadful  thought  hanging  over  me — that 
horrible,  ghastly  Death  would  steal  into  our  home  to-night, 
— and  a  moment  ago  I  crept  to  the  door  and  grandmother 
motioned' me  away;  but  she  nodded  her  head  at  me  and  smiled, 
• — smiled,  Tonio,  and  pointed  at  him,  and  he  was  sleeping 
sweetly  !  Oh,  Tonio !  he  will  live  now !  Listen  !  that  is  a  cock 
crowing :  it  must  be  nearly  morning." 

"  Yes,  the  doctor  has  made  a  mistake  this  time;  the  twenty- 
four  hours  are  past,  and  it  is  possible  he  may  live.  But  you, 
Viola,  you  have  been  up  all  night ;  you  should  go  and  sleep 
now." 

"I  could  not,"  she  answers,  decidedly;  and  seating  herself 
on  the  rustic  bench  opposite  to  him,  she  pulls  down  a  cluster 
of  clematis  from  the  vine  which  clambers  all  over  the  porch 
and  the  front  of  the  cottage,  and  buries  her  face  in  its  dewy 
fragrance.  "  I  am  not  the  least  sleepy ;  I  am  only  glad,  so 
glad !" 

"  Yet  you  do  not  know  this  stranger,"  muses  Tonio.  "Ah, 
Viola !  I  would  be  willing  to  suffer  as  much  as  he  has  done 
to  make  you  glad  that  my  life  was  spared  f" 

"  Foolish  boy !"  she  says,  softly,  and  pulls  down  another 
cluster,  at  which  she  sniffs  daintily. 

"  Viola,"  he  says,  suddenly,  coming  over  to  her  and  speak- 
ing earnestly,  "  I  have  been  thinking " 

"  Have  you,  really  ?"  she  asks,  with  faint  mockery  in  her 
tone. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  repeats,  quietly,  "  of  leaving 
Vogogna — of  going  away  somewhere — to  some  great  city — 
where " 

He  is  interrupted  by  a  faint  cry :  the  girl  has  turned  towards 
him  ;  in  her  face  are  mingled  grief  and  reproach. 

"  What  have  we  done  to  you  ?  Why  do  you  wish  to  leave 
us?^  Oh,  Tonio!  Tonio!"  And  then  the  hands  drop  the 
bruised  blossoms  and  in  the  blue  eyes  the  tears  are  glistening. 

This  unexpected  sight  completely  unnerves  Tonio ;  he 
throws  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her,  crying,  wildly,  "  Are 
these  tears  for  me  ?  Viola,  is  it  possible  that  my  going  can 
cause  you  pain  ?  Ah,  Dieu  !  what  happiness  you  give  me, 
my  beloved !" 

"  Hush,"  she  says,  gently;  half  frightened  by  this  irrepress- 


VIOLA.  139 

ible  emotion, — "  hush  ;  you  must  never  think  again  of  going 
away — of  leaving  Vogogna  !  Why,  where  would  you  go  ? — 
and  what  would  I  do  without  you  ?  No  one  to  talk  to  me  ! 
no  offe  to  walk  with  !  Ah,  Tonio  !  you  know  well  I  cannot 
spare  you.  It  was  foolish  to  cry,  but — I  have  been  sad  all  day, 
and  now — You  did  not  mean  it  ?''  And  she  smiles  down  at 
him  with  the  tears  yet  upon  her  cheek,  while  Tonio,  casting 
aside  the  last  vestige  of  restraint,  cries,  in  a  stifled  voice, — 

"  Viola,  do  not  ask  me  to  stay  unless  you — love  me ;  yes, 
.love  me  better  than  all  the  earth  holds, — as  I  love  you  ;  more 
than  life,  a  thousand  times !  so  dearly  that  I  would  give  this 
worthless  life  of  mine  joyfully  to  save  you  pain.  Viola,  can 
you  ever  love  me  like  this?" 

He  does  not  touch  her  ;  his  clasped  hands  are  wrung  together 
so  that  the  veins  stand  out  upon  them  in  dark  lines ;  his  eyes, 
strained  and  anxious,  are  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  Don't !  You  frighten  me !"  she  whispers,  shrinking  a 
little  from  him. 

Instantly  he  is  on  his  feet,  cut  to  the  quick  by  that  involun- 
tary movement  of  hers,  which,  to  his  sensitive  perceptions, 
is  too  eloquent  to  be  misunderstood. 

"  Forgive  me,  Viola ;  I  have  been  sitting  here  alone  so  long 
that  I  am — I  shall  never  frighten  you  again  !" 

"  And — you  will  not  go  away?"  she  ventures,  timidly. 

"  No ;  not  if  it  would  give  you  pain,"  he  replies,  unhesi- 
tatingly. 

"  Dear  Tonio  !"  Her  hand  reaches  up  to  his  :  apparently  he 
does  not  perceive  it,  and  she  draws  it  back  again  and  plucks 
nervously  at  the  flowers  on  her  lap. 

"  Are  you  vexed  with  me?"  she  asks,  breaking  the  silence, 
which  has  grown  oppressive,  and  longing  to  be  reconciled. 

"  I  could  not  be  vexed  with  you  ;  but,  Viola — see  there,  in 
the  east,  the  first  gleam  of  the  rising  sun  !  I  must  begone. 
Adieu !  adieu !"  And,  without  one  glance  towards  her,  he 
springs  down  the  steps  and  is  through  the  gate  before  she  has 
recovered  from  her  surprise  at  this  abrupt  change  of  manner 
and  sudden  departure. 

"  How  impetuous  he  is  !"  she  says  to  herself.  "  Going  off 
like  that,  before  I  could  tell  him  that  I  am  really  fond  of  him ! 
I  cannot  think  what  has  changed  him  so  of  late  ;  he  was  always 
so  gentle  and  calm,  and  now  he  is  sometimes  quite  rough  and 


140  SOUCL 

disagreeable.     Poor  Tonio  !  he  thinks  I  do  not  care  for  him  ! 
I  shall  tell  him  the  very  next  time  I  see  him  that  I  do  love 

him  dearly ! Ah,  how  sweet  the  flowers  are  at  day-dawn  ! 

I  cannot  bear  to  leave  them  ;  and  yet  I  should  go  within  and 

— help — grandmother " 

Lingering  just  a  moment  or  two  longer  to  inhale  the  fra- 
grance of  the  starry  white  blossoms,  with  her  arm  stretched 
along  the  back  of  the  seat  and  her  exquisite  face  lying  up- 
turned upon  it,  with  the  drooping  green  tendrils  framing  her 
in,  and  the  golden  arrows  of  sunrise  shot  forth  from  the  east 
falling  all  about  her,  Viola  drops  asleep,  making  a  fair  com- 
panion picture  to  that  vision  of  sleeping  youth  and  beauty 
which  tempted  Selene  from  her  chariot  of  fire  to  visit  the  grotto 
of  Mount  Latmus. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   VIOLET -BROIDERED   KERCHIEF. 

....  "Moreover  in  this  tyme  of  the  yere  called  the  sprynge-tyme, 
provoked  by  the  naturall  beautie  and  joyous  aspecte  of  the  flourysh- 
ynge  habyte  of  this  temporale  worlde,  the  nature  of  them  in  whom  is 
any  sparke  of  gentyll  courage  requireth  to  solace  and  bankette  with 
mutuall  resorte,  communicating  together  their  fantasyes  and  sundry 
devices."  .... 

LYSTER  RAWDON  lies  weakly  contemplating  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  the  interieur  after  Gerard  Dow,  afforded  by  his 
present  quarters, — whitewashed  walls,  staring,  spotlessly  clean, 
contrasting  vividly  with  red-tiled  floor  and  bright-green  lattice 
glaring  hotly  under  the  fierce  June  sun.  The  invalid's  weary 
eyes  travel  slowly  from  the  corner-cupboard,  behind  whose 
glass  doors  stands  that  choice  array,  dear  to  the  German  heart, 
of  blue-and-white  crockery,  to  the  old-fashioned  harpsichord 
whose  keys  are  as  yellow  with  age  as  the  piled-up  sheets 
of  music  lying  upon  it.  "  Musical,  too,  these  people,"  he 
thinks,  languidly.  "  I  wonder  who  plays  on  that  odd-looking 
instrument? — came  out  of  the  ark,  I  imagine  !  Perhaps  the 
old  man  with  the  violin  discourses  thereon  !  Would  to  heaven 
he  would  come  in  and  jingle  out  a  tune  now:  the  everlasting 


VIOLA.  141 

click  of  those  knitting-needles  would  give  Simeon  Stylites 
himself  delirium  tremens !  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer!" 
And  here  an  audible  groan  brings  the  cap-frills  and  the  wart- 
embellished  nose  of  the  old  Frau  into  view,  while  a  guttural 
voice  asks  if  anything  is  wanted. 

"  Nein,  nein  /"  is  the  impatient  reply,  as  the  young  man 
feebly  waves  her  aside,  closing  his  eyes  with  an  involuntary 
shudder. 

"  Ach  Gott  /"  grunts  the  old  woman,  resuming  her  seat  and 
her  knitting. 

Waking  suddenly  from  a  momentary  slumber  which  ensues, 
Rawdon's  eyes  open  upon  the  picture  hanging  over  the  pre- 
posterously high  chimney-piece.  It  is  a  dingy  copy  of  Gior- 
gione's  "Monk  at  the  Clavichord,"  and  had  been  one  of  Hein- 
rich's  unpardonable  extravagances  of  former  days.  In  the 
young  friar's  face  burns  the  very  soul  of  music  as  his  fingers 
linger  with  loving  tenderness  upon  the  keys.  One  can  almost 
fancy  what  the  strains  must  be  which  could  bring  such  rapt 
ecstasy  into  the  glorious  eyes. 

"  Rather  a  good  face,  that,"  Lyster  muses ;  "  and  a  curious 
effect  of  light  falling  on  the  inspired  eyes.  Wants  cleaning 
very  badly,  but  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  valuable.  Aston- 
ishing how  one  meets  with  good  pictures  where  one  least 
expects  them.  If  these  people  would  part  with  it — pshaw  ! 
what  would  they  not  part  with  for  a  sufficient  figure  in  their 
beloved  guldens  ?  I  shall  offer  them  a  fabulous  price  for  that 
souvenir  of  my  cursed  luck,  and  so  remunerate  them  for  their 
trouble, — for  I  have  given  them  a  precious  lot  of  trouble,  I'm 
sure,  during  this  blessed  fortnight !  Two  weeks  ?  Nearer 
three,  I  fancy, — and  long  and  tiresome  have  they  been  as  so 
many  years !  Three  whole  weeks  wasted  in  this  abominable 
village,  leagues  away  from  comfort,  luxury,  a  friend,  or  even  a 
newspaper!"  Then  he  falls  to  wondering  where  that  rascal  of 
a  Jenkins  can  be, — and  whether  poor  Mephisto  is  worse  lodged 
than  himself,  and  equally  bored, — and  anathematizes  his  ill 
luck,  or  his  obstinacy,  which  has  entailed  upon  him  such 
grievous  martyrdom ;  and  then  he  wishes  the  shadow  of  the 
vine-leaves  about  the  window  would  not  flicker  on  the  white 
wall  opposite  in  such  maddening  fiisliion, — and  that  somebody 
would  strangle  that  loud-ticking  Dutch  clock  in  the  corner, — 
and  that / 


142  SOUCI. 

So  he  sinks  again  into  slumber,  and  dreams  that  he  is  back  at 
college  modestly  receiving  the  prize  of  the  "  University  Eight," 
whilst  the  band  strikes  up  an  Italian  barcarolle,  and  sweet  Clare 
Delauaere,  looking  her  prettiest  in  the  Cambridge  blue,  waves 
her  handkerchief  and  throws  kisses  towards  him  from  'the  dis- 
tance. Then  the  scene  shifts,  and  he  hears  the  chapel-bell, 
and  hurries  into  gown  and  out  into  the  solemn  quadrangle  of 
Christ's,  startling  the  spectacled  bed-makers  and  the  "  dim-eyed 
vergers"  whom  he  meets  by  his  mad  haste.  Then  a  huge 
blue-bottle  blunders  in  through  the  bowed  lattice  and,  settling 
upon  the  dreamer's  nose,  awakens  him  with  a  start,  and  the 
harmless  insect  is  consigned  to  the  nethermost  shades  of 
Hades  by  the  invalid,  who  is  too  weak  to  do  battle  with  him 
after  the  ordinary  fashion. 

Once  more  this  ungrateful  Rawdon,  who  has  but  just 
emerged  from  the  portals  of  a  deadly  peril,  begins  to  chafe 
and  fume  at  his  enforced  inaction :  the  monotonous  sounds 
about  him,  the  felt  presence  of  the  old  crone  at  his  bed-head, 
grow  insupportable.  The  longing  to  murder  somebody,  or 
something,  begins  to  stir  in  his  blood.  He  will  get  up  and  go 
out  spite  of  anybody, — he  will  get  out  of  this  stuffy  little  room 
and  away  from  that  hideous  old  woman  if  he  dies  for  it.  It 
is  so  warm  and  sunny  outside  !  He  can  hear  the  buzzing  of 
the  bees  as  they  gather  their  store  of  honey  within  reach  of 
his  hand  ;  he  can  smell  the  sweet  breath  of  the  mignonette,  and 
see  the  green  fields  in  the  distance,  and  the  cool,  shady-wooded 
hill-side.  "  Yes,  I  shall  go  out  there,  cost  what  it  may.  I 
will  send  the  old  woman  for  some  slop  or  other,  and  make  my 

escape  through  the  window  before Halloo,  Jenkins  !  Any 

letters?" 

Fortunately  for  his  sanity,  there  is  a  goodly  budget,  which 
somewhat  exhausts  the  young  man  in  the  perusal,  so  that  after 
the  last  one  has  been  refolded  and  replaced  in  its  envelope  the 
lids  begin  to  droop  again  over  the  weak  eyes.  Jenkins,  stand- 
ing at  a  little  distance  awaiting  further  orders,  after  cautiously 
closing  the  door  upon  the  retreating  form  of  Frau  Hiiblemaun, 
now  advances. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  begins;  and,  fumbling  in  his  pocket, 
draws  forth  a  small  parcel  neatly  done  up  in  note-paper,  which 
he  hands  to  his  master. 

"  Well  ?"  cries  Rawdon,  impatiently  turning  it  over  between 


VIOLA.  143 

his  emaciated  fingers.  "  Where  did  this  come  from  ?  What 
the  deuce  is  it?" 

"  That,  please,  sir,  is  the  kerchief,  sir  !"  mysteriously  lower- 
ing his  voice. 

"  The  kerchief?     What  do  you  mean  ?     What  kerchief?" 

"  The  one  which  somebody  took  from  your  pocket,  sir,  the 
evening  of  the  accident,  and  spread  over  your  face, — my  back 
being  turned  for  an  instant,  or  nobody  should  have  took  such 
a  liberty.  I  fancied  you  set  much  store  by  it,  sir,  and  so 
secured  it  from  the  touch  of  these  people  about  here." 

"  Ah,  thanks.  You  may  go  now,  Jenkins.  No  ;  nothing 
more  before  night :  look  in  about  ten." 

As  soon  as  his  servant  has  departed,  Lyster  Rawdon  opens 
the  little  parcel  and  draws  therefrom  a  white  silk  handkerchief 
embroidered  with  violets,  which  to  his  knowledge  he  has  never 
before  laid  eyes  upon. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  prophet,  did  this  thing  drop  from 
the  clouds  upon  my  face,  or  is  it  some  trick  of  Jenkins's  ? 
A  feminine  belonging  it  assuredly  is,  but  who  among  this 
clumsy-limbed,  linsey-petticoated  peasantry  could  possess  an 
article  of  dress  as  dainty  and  poetical  as  this?"  Thus  he 
muses  and  wonders,  as  he  passes  the  gleaming  silk  through  his 
fingers  and  lays  it  in  cool  folds  on  his  cheek,  and  lastly  falls 
asleep  with  it  under  his  pillow,  weakly  clutched  in  his  thin 
hand. 


144  SOUCI. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"A   YELLOW   PRIMROSE   WAS   TO   HIM." 

"  Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune 
Morning  rises  into  noon — 
May  glides  onward  into  June." 

"  Look  at  the  woman  here  with  the  new  soul 
Like  my  own  Psyche's, — fresh  upon  her  lips 
Alit,  the  visionary  butterfly, 
Waiting  my  word  to  enter  and  make  bright, 
Or  nutter  off  and  leave  all  blank,  as  first."— BROWNING. 

HE  is  certainly  very  wretched  and  limp  and  loosely  hinged 
as  he  crawls  forth  for  the  first  time  after  his  illness,  supported 
on  one  side  by  Jenkins  and  on  the  other  by  Heinrich,  with 
Frau  Hablemann  bringing  up  the  rear,  laden  with  rugs  and 
cushions.  As  they  gain  the  shady  nook  at  which  he  has  gazed 
with  such  longing  impatience  during  so  many  days,  Lyster 
Rawdon  sinks  down  quite  exhausted  by  this  first  effort,  and 
closes  his  eyes  upon  the  vision  of  trees  and  plants  and  fences 
whirling  about  in  a  mad,  fantastic  dance  which  defies  the  laws 
of  natural  philosophy  and  threatens  a  relapse  into  delirium. 

The  fresh  air  revives  him  almost  immediately,  and,  as  the 
old  Frau  hastens  back  to  the  cottage  for  restoratives,  the  in- 
valid's eyes  unclose,  and  Jenkins  is  emphatically  instructed  to 
waylay  her  and  prevent  any  further  ministrations  at  her  hands. 
"  I  am  so  tired  of  that  wart,  Jenkins,  and  so  weary  of  those 
frightful  gutturals.  Couldn't  manage  to  bring  my  dinner  out 
here  yourself,  could  you  ?  I  fancy  I  could  do  better  out  of 
that  hot  little  room,"  plaintively  concludes  his  master,  as  he 
settles  himself  comfortably  on  his  rugs  and  sniifs  gratefully 
the  sweet-scented  air. 

"  Yes,  sir,  by  all  means ;  I  shall  serve  it  myself,  sir, — I  see 
a  harbor  within  reach.  Anything  further,  sir  ?" 

"Nothing;  stay,  where  is  my  book?  Ah,  thanks, — you 
can — fly,  Jenkins  !  I  see  the  cap-frills  looming  in  the  distance ! 


VIOLA.  U5 

She  is  not  to  come  near  me  to-day  ;  remember  !"  As  his  ser- 
vant moves  off  to  intercept  the  worthy  Frau,  who  struggles 
under  an  extensive  collection  of  tisanes  and  cordials,  Rawdon, 
stretching  himself  languidly  in  the  foliage-tempered  sunshine, 
murmurs,  "  I  wonder  why  such  objects  as  that  old  crone  are 
permitted  to  cumber  the  earth  ?  I  never  could  understand 
how  a  great  painter  could  choose  to  perpetuate  them  on  can- 
vas. Curious  taste1!  spending  hours  of  genius  in  handing 
down  to  posterity  a  wrinkle  or  a  wart !  How  Holbein  would 
have  gloated  over  this  hideous  old  Frau  !"  And  he  opens 
a  volume  of  the  light  French  literature  which  composes  his 
studies  at  this  epoch,  and  tries  to  read. 

Clearly,  Lyster  Rawdon  is  a  philosopher  of  the  aesthetic 
school :  who  is  not  while  the  wine  of  life  still  froths  within  him  ? 

He  is  not  ungrateful ;  but  his  gratitude  shall  assume  the 
form  of  munificent  compensation.  He  is  simply  epicurean, 
and  as  selfish  as  men  well-born,  well-looking,  and  rich  are  edu- 
cated to  be,  and  invariably  are  in  the  heyday  of  their  youth. 

It  does  not  occur  to  him  that  in  blotting  out  of  existence 
that  immense  majority  unfavored  by  nature  he  would  anni- 
hilate a  vast  proportion  of  the  good  done  in  the  world, — of 
usefulness  and  energy  and  industry,  those  homely  virtues 
without  which  beauty  would  infallibly  starve  and  suffer  and 
become  food  for  worms.  Nor  does  he  pause  to  consider  how 
the  steady  nerve  and  unflinching  endurance  of  the  old  German 
woman  had  served  him  in  good  stead  during  his  tedious  ill- 
ness, when  the  transparent-cheeked,  taper-fingered  houri  of 
his  worldly  paradise  would  have  faltered  and  failed. 

\\  c  would  not,  in  good  sooth,  banish  from  our  gardens  the 
tulip  or  the  rose,  but  we  would  fain  see  some  straggling  beams 
of  sunshine  penetrate  those  obscure  corners  and  out-of-the-way 
placet  where  lie  hidden  the  plain  sister-flowers  whose  power  to 
men  is  no  less  surely  manifest;  the  dun-colored,  drooping- 
headed  plants  that  carry  gentle  healing  under  their  shy  leaves 
and  balm  for  many  a  smart  in  their  scentless  calyces. 

We  cannot  all  be  Juliets, — nor  is  life  one  interminable  moon- 
lit balcony  scene,  where  youth  and  health  and  beauty  glow 
perennially  under  a  southern-starred  sky  ;  where  the  language 
is  lovers'  rapturous  hyperbole  and  the  very  atmosphere  laden 

with  ecstasy. 

In  this  witches'  cauldron  we  call  life  there  are  "  toil  and 
a  13 


146  SOUCL 

trouble,"  bane  and  rue,  gall-bitter  sighs  and  tears,  Eve's  curse 
and  the  sweat  of  Adam's  brow,  sin  and  sin's  fruit,  pain,  stirred 
into  one  seething,  bubbling  ferment  by  the  Hecate — Circum- 
stance. Way,  then,  for  the  comforters,  the  healers,  the  plain 
ones  of  the  earth  ! 

Lyster  Rawdon  tries  to  read,  in  vain.  He  cannot  fix  his 
attention  on  those  black  lines,  he  can  only  lie  still  with  half- 
closed  eyes  and  semi-torpid  mind,  enjoying  the  sweet  air  blow- 
ing revivingly  over  him  fresh  from  the  hills.  He  wonders 
how  he  could  possibly  have  endured  existence  in  that  contracted 
space  within  the  cottage  walls,  and  how  he  can  ever  bring  him- 
self to  re-enter  it.  How  terribly  prosaic,  how  lornee  life  must 
be  in  this  valley,  shut  in  by  those  everlasting  mountains 
from  even  a  sight  of  the  great  world  beyond !  Ah,  it  is 
suffocating  even  to  think  of  it !  And  so  he  drowses  away  the 
hours  until  noon,  reading  a  little,  thinking  a  little,  and  growl- 
ing a  great  deal,  in  an  indolent,  self-pitying  way ;  regretting 
ceaselessly  his  pig-headedness  in  trying  to  compass  these  Alpine 
passes  otherwise  than  mule-mounted  ;  bemoaning  rancorously 
poor  Mephisto's  untimely  end ;  wondering  if  Clare  Delarnere 
is  flirting  as  hard  as  usual  at  Homburg,  and  what  she  will  say 
when  she  sees  this  gaunt  spectre  of  his  former  self;  fighting 
languidly  the  while  the  energetic  bees,  who,  mistaking  him  for 
some  giant  honey-laden  flower,  bestow  upon  him  their  unwel- 
come attentions. 

Thus  the  heavy-footed  hours  creep  slowly  on,  weighted  by 
troublous  regrets  and  conjectures,  which  would  surely  have 
reduced  Rawdon's  weakness  to  a  condition  of  lachrymose  im- 
becility in  time,  had  not  a  Devs  ex  machina  intervened. 

As  the  raid-day  bell  rings  out  its  cheerful  summons  to  the 
workers  in  the  fields,  Rawdon  sees  advancing  towards  him  a 
slight,  well-carried  figure,  habited  in  the  coarse  but  picturesque 
garb  of  the  peasantry,  and  surmounted  by  a  face  which  might 
have  looked  out  of  the  canvas  of  a  Duccio  or  a  Fra  Angelico. 
Upon  her  uncovered  head  the  sun  pours  down  his  meridian 
rays  without  mercy,  bringing  out  with  startling  effect  the  deli- 
cate tints  of  her  complexion  and  the  deep  azure  of  her  eyes. 
On  her  arm  hangs  a  comfortable-looking  basket  covered  with 
a  snow-white  napkin,  from  which  protrude  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
and  the  legs  of  a  pullet,  with  a  green  glimmer  of  juvenile 
salad  between  them. 


VIOLA.  147 

"  Luncheon  and — more  gutturals  ;  but,  in  the  name  of  all 
the  gods  !  where  did  this  beauty  come  from  ?"  Slightly  modi- 
fying his  degagee  attitude,  Lyster  raises  his  glengarry  with  an 
expression  of  mixed  awe  and  delight,  rather  comic,  upou  his 
youthful  features. 

"Buon  giorno,  signorina!"  he  ventures,  with  his  sweetest 
smile.  There  is  no  reply,  save  the  faintest  possible  inclination 
of  the  graceful  head.  "  Gutturals  !"  thinks  Rawdon.  "  Guten 
Morgen,  Frdulcin  /" 

"  Good-morning,  sir !"  returns  Viola,  demurely,  in  English, 
beginning  to  unpack  her  basket  and  spread  its  contents  tempt- 
ingly before  the  invalid. 

"Ah  !  you  speak  my  language  /"  exclaims  the  Briton. 

"  Yes,  I  do  speak  English.  Not  very  well,  but  well  enough," 
she  answers,  simply. 

"  And  how  well  is  well  enough  ?"  pursues  Rawdon,  whose 
ennui  has  fled,  and  is  succeeded  by  an  animation  of  manner 
and  show  of  interest  which  would  not  perhaps  be  considered 
good  form  in  his  set  at  home.  "  You  mean  that  you  can  make 
yourself  understood  ?" 

"  No,"  she  smiles ;  "  I  am  afraid  I  did  mean  well  enough 
for  a  language  which — is — not — beautiful ; — at  least,"  she 
adds,  apologetically,  "  it  does  seem  hard  and  cold  to  me." 

A  gleam  of  amusement  flashes  from  Rawdon 's  blue  eyes : 
he  is  almost  piqued.  This  girl,  born  and  bred  in  the  valley 
whose  boundary-line  reaches  almost  to  the  clouds,  has  opin- 
ions ;  she  thinks,  reasons,  judges,  and  is  not  afraid  to  assert 
her  conclusions  !  She  is  frank,  too :  she  will  not  flatter ;  yet 
she  is  not  bold  or  rude.  How  firmly  she  spoke,  and  with 
what  a  delicious  blush !  He  watches  her  curiously,  as  with 
dainty  movements  she  spreads  a  white  cloth  on  a  smooth  bit 
of  turf  and  arranges  his  meal  with  dexterous  grace.  When 
all  is  ready — even  the  bottle  uncorked  and  his  glass  filled 
— Viola  is  about  to  withdraw,  but  Rawdon,  guessing  her  in- 
tention, bursts  forth,  "  And  so  you  do  not  like  English  or 
English  people?" 

"  Pardon,  sir.  I  did  say  that  I  do  not  prefer  the  language  ; 
I  do  like  the  people." 

"  Really  ?  Then  you  have  known  some  of  my  compatriots?" 
Already  a  faint  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  as  the  thought 
intrudes,  "  I  wonder  whether  if  one  were  to  explore  the  crater 


148  SOUCL 

of  Vesuvius  one  might  discover  an  aboriginal  who  had  not  been 
interviewed  by  John  Bull?" 

We  cannot  blame  him  for  a  twinge  of  impatience,  can  we  ? 
The  ubiquity  of  John  Bull — and  of  his  foster-children  of  the 
West — is  a  universal  grievance.  Cast  your  eyes  up  into  the 
blue  ether, — he  is  there — in  a  balloon ;  dive  beneath  the 
waves  of  the  sea, — he  is  there — teaching  aquatic  housekeeping, 
and  proving  beyond  a  doubt  that  even  there  mighf  a  trouble- 
some little  English  offshoot  take  root  and  flourish.  One  may 
plunge  into  the  wilds  of  Africa  and  watch  him  lion-hunting, 
— or  dig  down  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  and  find  him  gold- 
mining,  silver-mining,  lead-mining,  coal-mining.  One  pitches 
one's  tent  on  the  topmost  peak  of  the  Himalayas,  and  as 
surely  as  one  issues  forth  in  search  of  goat's  milk  or  wild 
hooey,  one  is  accosted  in  the  too  familiar  vernacular.  He 
pervades  the  face  of  the  earth  ;  swarms  over  the  desert,  on 
the  prairie,  in  the  hamlet ;  wherever  that  resolute,  curious, 
sport-loving,  supremacy-asserting  foot  can  find  space  to  locate 
itself,  it  has  left  its  irrefutable — and  not  pigmy — track :  in 
ice  and  snow,  in  loam  and  lava,  in  the  memory  of  landlords 
and  the  hearts  of — beer-purveyors.  Perhaps  we  may  add, 
without  flattery,  in  the  respect  and  esteem  of  all  the  nations, 
— for,  with  all  his  pomposity,  John  Bull  is  an  honest  and  an 
upright  John  Bull,  and — we  love  him  I 

Thus — "  I  have  met  one  of  your  compatriots,"  murmurs 
the  lily  of  the  valley  between  the  Alpine  heights. 

"  But  you  are — German  ?"  asks  llawdon,  bringing  himself 
to  a  sitting  posture,  and  beginning  to  carve  the  fowl. 

"  Yes,  I  am  German." 

"  And  think  our  language  harsher,  colder,  than  yours  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  German  is  not  like  English ;  it  is  full  of  deep 
heart-tones, — though  it  is  not  so  soft  and  liquid  as  Italian, — 
or  even  French,"  she  admits,  reluctantly. 

Her  companion  looks  surprised.  "  Do  you  know  all  these 
languages  ?"  he  says.  "  Let  me  see, — German,  Italian,  French, 
English, — and  how  many  more?" 

He  has  laid  down  the  carving-knife  to  count  them  on  his 
fingers,  and  Viola,  observing  how  tremulous  are  his  hands, 
comes  forward,  and,  with  a  few  swift  cuts,  dissects  the  little 
chicken,  and  answers,  with  heightened  color,  "  None,  sir." 


VIOLA.  149 

"  Did  all  these  tongues  come  to  you  spontaneously — all  at 
once — as  to  the  unlucky  wretches  at  the  Tower  of  Babel  ?" 

"  No,"  laughs  Viola, — and  he  wonders  were  ever  pearls 
whiter  than  those  which  flash  upon  him  for  an  instant, — "oh, 
no  ;  German  is  my  native  language,  and  we  came  to  Vogogna 
when  I  was  quite  a  baby,  so  I  was  obliged  to  speak  Italian ; 
but  French  and  English  were  taught  me  by  Mees  Crawford, — 

Maddalena's  governess, — and "  she  hesitates  a  moment, 

then  adds  desperately,  as  though  to  forestall  any  possible  ques- 
tion from  this  inquisitive  Englishman,  "  she  taught  me  also  to 
read  and  write — to  play  on  the  harpsichord — and  to  sketch — 
and — everything !" 

"  What  a  rara  avis  Maddalena's  governess  must  be !"  com- 
ments Ilawdon,  stretching  towards  his  companion  a  pepper- 
and-salt-plaid  arm,  whose  thin  white  hand  holds  the  solitary 
plate  with  a  delicate  slice  of  fowl  upon  it.  "  And  so  she 
taught  you  everything !  what  a  little  cyclopaedia  you  must 
be!" 

"Pardon,  sir,"  motioning  back  the  outstretched  arm;  "I 
have  dined ;  and  there  is  but  one  plate."  And  she  draws 
from  her  pocket  some  embroidery,  and  bends  her  head  over  it. 

At  this  Ilawdon  lays  down  knife  and  fork,  with  an  expression 
of  dogged  obstinacy  on  his  face.  "  In  that  case,"  he  says, 
coldly,  "  I  have  no  appetite.  We  will  replace  these  good 
things  in  the  basket,  signorina,"  beginning  operations  by 
emptying  a  plate  of  weissbrod — a  delicacy  manufactured 
solely  by  Frau  Hilblemaun — into  the  carefully-prepared  Ger- 
nian  salad. 

Viola,  looking  absolutely  terrified,  springs  towards  him,  cry- 
ing, whilst  she  seizes  the  gray  arm,  "Ah,  but  that  will  be 
unkind,  sir !  Grandmother  will  never  forgive  me  if  I  do 
carry  your  dinner  back  to  her  !  See  !  here  is  the  good  soup  : 
that  will  strengthen  you ;  and  here  are  berries  which  I  gath- 
ered at  sunrise  this  morning."  And  she  diplomatically  un- 
covers the  tureen  and  draws  aside  some  dewy  vine-leaves  to 
allow  the  tempting  aroma  of  the  soup  and  the  freshness  of  the 
berries  to  plead  their  own  cause. 

"  You  gathered  these  at  sunrise — for  me  ?"  cries  the  young 
inaii.  with  the  ready  egotism  of  his  sex  and  years.  "Then 
you  must  share  them  with  me.  Come,  let  it  be  a  picnic 
tcte-u-lete  ;  I  don't  like  to  feed  alone." 

13* 


150  souci. 

So  they  compromise  matters.  Viola  eats  strawberries  from 
the  tips  of  her  slender,  sun-browned  fingers  off  a  vine-leaf 
plate,  whilst  llawdon  goes  in  for  the  substantiate  with  the  keen 
enjoyment  of  a  convalescent.  As  he  leisurely  dines  he  takes 
note  of  the  wonderfully  pure  oval  of  his  companion's  face, 
of  the  length  of  the  dark  eyelashes  so  frequently  defined  upon 
the  flushing  cheek,  and  of  the  rare  shapeliness  of  the  foot  and 
ankle  which  even  the  coarse  stocking  and  clumsy  shoe  cannot 
disguise. 

Conversation  does  not  languish ;  Rawdon's  curiosity  is  mo- 
mentarily increasing,  and  Viola's  proud  shyness  is  wearing 
off.  Only  once  has  he  heard  that  little  low  ripple  of  a  laugh  ; 
but  she  has  smiled  often,  and  she  talks  ten  words  for  every 
berry  she  eats. 

The  invalid's  languor  has  disappeared.  He  has  done  full 
justice  to  each  dish,  lingering  absurdly  long  over  this  repast, 
which  has  never  been  equalled  in  his  experience,  and  never 
will  be  again  perhaps.  His  blue  eyes  are  alight  with  some- 
thing of  their  old  joyousness  ;  this  valley  is  not  such  a  dreary 
hole,  after  all.  He  has  extracted  from  Viola  the  entire  his- 
tory of  her  sojourn  with  the  Contessa ;  her  naive  recital  touch- 
ing him  sometimes  to  suppressed  amusement,  sometimes  to 
indignation,  which  he  does  not  hesitate  to  flash  forth  with 
boyish  impetuosity.  For,  spite  of  his  twenty-two  years,  Lyster 
llawdon  is  at  heart  a  boy,  rash,  daring,  hot-headed,  with  all  a 
boy's  genuine  loathing  of  double-dealing  and  intolerance  of 
injustice.  Behind  his  coat-of-mail  of  well-bred  nonchalance 
he  has  kept  sacred  his  old  enthusiasms,  and  a  freshness  of 
feeling  which  has  resisted  even  the  battering  effects  of  a  couple 
of  seasons. 

I  fancy  the  boy  survives  longer  in  the  Englishman  than  in 
men  of  any  other  nationality.  There  is  a  flicker  of  genuine 
boyish  mischief  in  the  eye  of  many  a  potent,  grave,  and  rev- 
erend signior,  and  a  ring  in  his  hearty  laugh,  which  would  not 
be  out  of  place  in  the  Eton  play-ground.  I  doubt  not  there 
are  sapient  heads  in  both  Houses  which  would  not  wag  repre- 
hensively  over  the  recital  of  a  school-boy  prank,  and  men 
who  would  not  scorn  a  game  at  foot-ball,  and  whose  blood 
would  tingle  yet  in  the  cricket-field,  were  it  not  for  that 
inflexible  "  tempora  mutantur,  et  nos  mutamur  m  illfs." 

Lyster  llawdon  will  always  keep  a  great  deal  of  the  boy 


VIOLA.  151 

about  him  ;  spite  of  the  enormous  social  advantages  to  which 
he  was  born,  he  is  morally  and  mentally  wholesome  and  sound. 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  have  been  a  monstrousjy  selfish  piece 
of  business  for  that  noble  dame  to  have  taken  this  girl  out  of 
her  humble  sphere  for  just  such  length  of  time  as  suited  her 
convenience  or  caprice,  to  cast  her  back  again  among  these 
boors  after  utterly  unfitting  her  to  herd  with  them  !"  Thus 
he  fumes,  inwardly,  as  he  observes  the  sad  droop  of  Viola's 
lips  at  the  conclusion  of  her  retrospective  narration. 

There  will  never  come  a  time,  Viola  thinks,  when  she  can 
glance  back  without  regret  upon  those  three  years  of  happiness, 
— those  years  spent  in  a  very  Canaan  overflowing  with  the  milk 
arid  honey  of  the  world's  choicest  allurements  of  cultivation 
and  the  refinements  of  life,  the  elegancies  of  art  and  culture. 
Alas,  she  has  learned  to  appreciate  to  the  fullest  extent  all 
these  things,  and  to  shrink  from  anything  that  jars  against 
the  sensitive  perceptions  which  innate  in  her,  peasant  as  she 
is,  might  have  rested  unawakened  within  her.  Ah,  how 
many  are  there  who,  in  default  of  opportunity,  live  out  their 
clod-life  to  the  end,  and  with  wings  over-weighted  by  igno- 
rance, doubt,  despair,  unable  to  soar  above  the  level  of  their 
surroundings,  "  die  with  all  their  music  in  them" ! 

Through  the  dense  foliage  of  the  tree  against  which  Raw- 
don  leans,  with  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  his  handsome 
head,  the  sunshine  trembles,  mottling  them  all  over  with 
patches  of  brightness,  making  more  vividly  green  the  velvet 
turf,  and  deepening  the  gold  in  the  long,  trailing  braids  of 
Viola's  hair,  hanging  down  over  the  rusty  black  bodice  like 
bronze  serpents.  Rawdon  contemplates  her  with  rising  wrath. 

"  And  what  is  the  end  of  the  fairy-tale,  signorina  ?"  he  asks. 
"  Since  your  return  to  this  '  Happy  Valley'  have  you  heard 
nothing  from  the  fairy-godmother?" 

Viola  looks  lovelier  than  ever,  he  thinks,  as  the  graceful 
head  droops  lower  over  her  work,  while  the  faint  flush  in  her 
cheek  deepens;  but  she  answers  frankly,  in  a  low,  sad  voice, 
"  I  have  only  heard  twice  from  Maddalena, — once  immediately 
after  her  arrival  in  Paris,  and  the  second  letter  told  me  of  her 
mother's  death  in  Rome,  last  winter."  The  last  words  are 
almost  inaudible,  and  two  tears  roll  down  the  girl's  face  and 
drop  on  the  palm-leaf  she  is  working. 

Rawdon  leans  eagerly  forward  with  a  quick  flash  in  his 


152  SOUCT. 

blue  eyes, — he  has  never  seen  a  woman  cry  before, — and  says, 
earnestly, — 

"  I  say,  don't  do  that ;  she  is  not  worth  those  tears, — at 
least,  I  mean — she  could  not  have  had  much  heart  to  forget  you 
so  easily  !  By  Jove  !  I  sha'n't  forget  you  all  my  life,  and  I've 
only  known  you" — pulling  out  his  watch — "  three  hours  and 
twenty-two  minutes  !  And  after  all  the  fuss  they  made  about 
you,  too  !  Pah  !  it's  too  disgusting !" 

Viola  cannot  resist  smiling  through  her  tears  at  this  vehe- 
ment speech. 

"  What  about  the  English  governess  ?  I'll  lay  a  wager  she 
did  not  turn  her  back  on  you,"  Lyster  asks,  recovering  his 
customary  placidity  with  an  effort. 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  have  from  Mees  Crawford  a  letter  every  week  ! 
She  is  in  Paris  now,  with  an  English  family  who  reside  there. 
I.  do  not  think  I  would  live  long  without  these  dear  letters, 
they  are  so  much  to  me, — books,  pictures,  music,  and  the  big, 
living  world!"  she  says,  with  a  sort  of  pant  at  the  end  of  her 
sentence,  like  an  animal  that  has  escaped  stifling. 

"  Liebchen  !  Liebchen  !"  calls,  at  this  instant,  a  voice  from 
the  cottage. 

"Must  you  go?"  asks  Rawdon,  with  more  entreaty  in  his 
eyes  than  in  his  words,  as  she  hastily  collects  the  debris  of  his 
dinner  and  restores  the  various  dishes  to  the  basket.  "  Must 
you  go — Liebchen  ?"  laughing  and  coloring.  "  What  a  curious 
name  is  yours,  Fraulein  !" 

"I  have  another  name,"  she  says,  quietly:  "it  is  Viola; 
it  was  given  me  by  the  dear  Contessa." 

"  Viola, — Violet.  The  Contessa  was  a  lady  of  delicate  dis- 
cernment. I  do  not  dislike  her  as  much  as  I  did,  signorina." 

"  No?  You  would  have  loved  her  if  you  had  seen  her, — 
a  face  as  pure  and  pale  as  a  lily,  a  voice  like  a  silver  bell,  eyes 
dark  and  soft  as " 

"  Liebchen,  warum  Jcommst  du  nicht  f  (from  the  distance.) 

"  Good-by,"  the  girl  says,  with  her  pretty  accent,  and  a  shy 
little  glance  as  she  turns  away.  "  Shall  I  send  the  valet  of 
monsieur  to  him  ?" 

"  Thanks,  no.  I  shall  do  very  well  with  my  book  until 

I  say,  are  you  to  bring  me  my  breakfast,  Fraulein?" 

"  Do  you  not  breakfast  within-doors,  sir?" 

"  I  shall  not  do  so  in  future.     The  fresh  air  I  find 


VIOLA.  ir.o 

Hang  it  all !  do  breakfast  with  me  out  here, — that's  a  dear 
girl !     I  am  so  tired  of  bed  !" 

"  I  shall  see."  she  replies,  smiling ;  and,  nodding  gcod- 
humorcdly,  she  runs  down  the  path  and  disappears. 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  Contcssa's  disinterested 
benevolence,"  is  the  thought  which  puzzles  Kawdon,  as  he 
takes  from  an  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  a  white  silk  handker- 
chief, and  with  a  smile  reads  the  hieroglyphics  in  each  corner, 
which  now  spell  out  to  him  a  name.  "  Violet, — Viola !''  he 
repeats  once  more,  as  though  he  liked  the  association  of  the 
flower  with  the  girl.  "  Bah  !  what's  all  this  to  me  ?"  And 
he  replaces  the  kerchief  and  turns  the  pages  of  Balzac's  "  Vie 
Parisienne." 

AVhether  the  salon  philosopher  is  really  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable I  know  not,  but  Eawdon  finds  his  subtle  sophistries 
tainted  with  musk  and  millefleurs,  after  the  fresh  sweetness  of 
the  Alpine  violet ;  and  his  moral  deformities — stripped  and 
stark — horrible,  after  the  frank  and  modest  simplicity  of  tliis 
peasant-maiden.  The  book  slips  to  the  ground  unheeded, 
and,  with  the  tact  of  a  Frenchman  who  discovers  that  he  has 
ceased  to  charm,  Balzac  buries  himself  out  of  sight  among 
the  tall  grass  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree,  content  to  bide  his 
time. 

"  Pity  that  child  ever  saw  the  other  side  of  the  Alps," 
ruminates  wise  twenty-two,  stretching  himself  lazily  on  his 
cushions  and  lighting  a  cigarette.  "  She  will  never  be  con- 
tented in  this  valley  as  long  as  she  lives, — never !  Some  day 
she  will  become  so  convinced  of  her  own  discontent  that  she 
will  creep  out  somehow  into  the  '  big,  living  world/  as  she 
calls  it,  to  join  that  pitiful  chorus  in  the  '  Song  of  the  Shirt,' 
perhaps;  to  take  that  sensitive  face  and  delicate  frame  into  the 
noisy,  bustling  city,  where  she  will  inevitably  be  trampled  to 
death.  It  will  be  the  old  story, — honest  industry  and  inno- 
cence pitted  against  starvation,  despair,  and — charcoal-fumes. 
A  man  caa  carve  out  his  own  life  pretty  well  if  he  chooses, — 
average  brains  and  sound  wind  and  limb  granted, — but — a 

woman " 

Here  Rawdon  interrupts  his  soliloquy  to  aim  a  pebble  at  a 
bright-eyed  lizard,  which  is  regarding  him  complacently. 

"  Poor  little  woman  !"  he  resumes,  as  the  startled  animal 
glides  swiftly  away  untouched.     "  I  suppose  when  the  kuowl- 
G* 


154  SOUCL 

edge  comes  to  her  that  she  is  something  more  than  a  clam,  it 
mast  be  rather  difficult  to  get  back  into  the  shell  which  is  too 
cramped  in  its  dimensions  to  hold  her  comfortably.  But  why 
was  the  knowledge  permitted  to  break  upon  her?  Ah,  there's 
the  rub  !  It  is  one  of  those  mysteriously  inscrutable  orderings 
of  Providence  which  are  so  deucedly  difficult  to  comprehend, 
this  awakening  of  a  woman's  mind  and  soul  merely  to  bid  them 
go  to  sleep  again !  Pshaw !"  And  then,  waxing  wroth  at 
himself  for  being  moved  out  of  his  habitual  calm,  Lyster 
flings  away  the  end  of  his  cigarette  impatiently,  and,  strug- 
gling to  his  feet,  takes  Jenkins's  arm,  and  drags  his  long  limbs 
wearily  along  the  path  leading  to  the  cottage,  wondering,  and 
chafing  at  the  wonder,  how  long  he  shall  feel  like  such  a  great, 
helpless,  overgrown  baby,  and  be  condemned  to  sleep  in  that 
stifling  little  cupboard  of  a  room. 

An  obtrusive  verse  he  had  seen  somewhere  haunted  him 
before  he  slept  that  night.     The  lines  were  these : 

"A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  LOVE'S    WORDS    ARE   WRIT    ON    ROSE-LEAVES,    BUT   WITH 
TEARS." 

....  "I  called  him  Crichton,  for  he  seemed 
All  perfect,  finished  to  the  finger-nail. 

*#«-**-*  *- 

And  well  his  words  became  him :  was  he  not 
A  full-celled  honey-comb  of  eloquence  stored  from  all  flowers?" 

"  I  SHALL  not  keep  you  long,  Viola ;  but  speak  to  you  I 
must,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes.  Are  you  unwilling  to  spare 
me  even  these  out  of  the  long  day?"  pleads  Tonio,  with  grave 
reproach  in  tone  and  glance,  as  he  raises  the  latch  of  the 
garden-gate  for  her,  one  afternoon,  a  fortnight  later. 

The  girl  gives  him  a  quick  look  of  surprise  as  she  joins  him 


VIOLA.  155 

on  the  road,  and  her  color  deepens  a  little,  but  she  answers, 
lightly,  "What  can  you  mean,  Tonio?  Of  course  you  can 
speak  to  me  as  often  and  as  long  as  you  please.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that." 

"And  yet,"  he  replies,  sadly,  "  I  have  not  spoken  a  word  to 
you  since  Sunday, — three  whole  days  ago." 

"Whose  fault  is  that?"  she  asks,  gently.,  "You  have 
avoided  the  cottage  as  if  you  did  not  care  to  see  us  ever 
ngain  ;  but  perhaps  it  was  because  Pepita  Razzi  lives  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  village,"  she  adds,  maliciously. 

Tonio  scorns  to  take  notice  of  this  innuendo.  He  walk>s 
silently  beside  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  says, — 

"  Am  I  never  to  have  any  more  lessons,  Vio  ?  I  have  made 
great  progress  since  our  last  day  on  the  hill-side"  (that  cursed 
day  which  brought  this  English  stranger  among  them).  "  I 
study  at  night ;  I  should  be  glad  to  know  whether  I  have 
improved " 

The  wistful  tones  touch  the  girl's  heart.  "  Should  you, 
Tonio  ?  Well,  we  shall  have  to-morrow  evening.  I,  too,  am 
anxious  to  know  what  you  have  done." 

"  Are  you?  Ah,  Vio,  do  you  really  take  any  more  interest 
in  me, — a  great,  lumbering,  ignorant  boor  beside  that  refined 
and  educated  gentleman  who  lingers  here — God  knows — long 
after  he  is  able  to  travel !" 

"  Tonio  !"  Only  that  one  word,  but  such  a  cutting  glance  of 
indignant  scorn  from  the  violet  eyes !  But  Tonio's  blood  is 
rushing  madly  back  upon  his  heart ;  he  goes  on,  blind  with 
pain  :  "  It  is  quite  true  !  Over  a  week  ago  he  could  walk  miles 
without  fatigue;  he  may  be  a  gentleman — a  nobleman,  perhaps 
— and  I,  a  boor,  but  I  would  not  do  as  he  is  doing  for  all  that ! 
I  tell  you,  Viola,  he  is  doing  a  thing  which  I  would  die  before 
I  would  do !  A  thing  so  contemptible  that  you  could  never 
dream  of  it !" 

Viola  looks  at  him  with  startled  eyes  and  parted  lips,  the 
color  flown  from  her  cheek.  "  What,  what  is  it  ?  Tonio,  what 
do  you  mean  ?"  she  gasps. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean,"  he  answers,  resolutely,  though 
his  face  is  white  with  pain  and  his  eyes  bear  in  them  an  ex- 
pression she  has  never  seen  before.  "  I  shall  tell  you, — nobody 
else  will, — but  first,  are  you  going  to  meet  him  now?" 

"  I  am  taking  these  books  to  him  ;  yes,"  she  answers,  with 


156  SOUCL 

downcast  face ;  "  he  is  sitting  by  the  waterfall  reading,  now, 
and  I  promised  to  bring  these  to  him  as  soon  as  grandmother 
could  spare  me." 

"  And  she — your  grandmother — was  willing  that  you  should 
go?  Ah,  my  God  !" 

"  Certainly  she  was  willing.  Tonio,  what  ails  you  ?  Is  it 
a  sin  for  me  to  take  these  books  to  him,  and  for  him  to  read 
to  me  while  I  work  ?" 

"  Ah,  he  reads  to  you,  does  he?  and — you  like  it?" 

"  Like  it !"  she  clasps  her  hands  over  the  top  of  the  books 
with  a  glow  of  delight  in  her  face.  "You  should  hear  him 
read,  Tonio,  and  you  could  not  ask  that  question  !  Everything 
— old  things  I  almost  knew  by  heart,  sound  different  when 
he  reads  them  !  See,"  she  opens  one  of  the  volumes  at  a  marked 
page,  "  this  is  where  he  left  off  yesterday  ;  it  is  so  beautiful ! 
so  beautiful — read  aloud!" 

Tonio  takes  the  book  in  his  hands.  "  Corinne,  par  Mme. 
de  Stael,"  he  reads  on  the  back.  "  Viola,  perhaps  I  might  be 
able  to  read  this  to  you  as  well  as  that  stranger ;  it  is  in  my 
native  tongue,  which  the  English  always  mutilate " 

"  Mutilate  !"  exclaims  his  companion,  indignantly.  "  Ah, 
Tonio,  that  is  not  like  you  !  His  voice  is  like  music,  like  the 
Contessa's, — and  his  accent " 

"  Well  ?"  inquires  Tonio,  coldly,  as  she  hesitates. 

"  I  do  not  care  whether  his  accent  is  perfectly  correct  or 
not,"  she  rejoins,  impatiently  ;  "  I  only  know  I  like  French  as 
lie  speaks  it  better  than  any  I  have  ever  heard !"  And,  taking 
off  her  broad-brimmed  hat,  she  fans  herself  vigorously  with  it. 

Tonio's  brown  cheek  flushes  a  deep  crimson  at  this  womanly 
conclusion  of  the  argument.  He  bites  his  lip  hard,  and,  after  a 
moment,  says  gently,  "  The  other  book — is  English,  no  doubt?" 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  '  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ;'  he  is  going  to  begin 
it  to-day." 

Slowly  they  walk  on  side  by  side — yet  so  far  apart — until 
they  reach  the  spot  where  that  last  bright  afternoon  had  been 
spent,  and  Tonio,  at  sight  of  it,  falters  in  his  pride.  "  Viola," 
he  says,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  give  me  a  few  minutes  longer 
here ;  I  have  to  tell  you  what  I  meant  a  moment  ago  :  let  this 
stranger  wait  for  you,  and  take  your  old  place  here  for  just  this 
once,  I  entreat  you  !" 

One  upward  glance  Viola  casts  towards  the  spot  whence  the 


VIOLA.  157 

sound  of  water  tumbling  over  the  rocks  can  be  faintly  heard, 
and  where  the  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  Englishman  awaits  her 
coming,  then  she  seats  herself  in  the  same  mossy  hollow  of  a 
tree-trunk  that  she  had  occupied  five  weeks  ago.  What  subtle 
change  has  passed  over  her  since  that  day,  when  she  had  found 
such  pleasure  in  the  study  of  Antiope  ?  There  is  a  new  light 
and  a  strange  shadow  in  the  face;  trembling  joy  and  tender  pain 
blent  together  into  a  sweet  womanliness.  To  the  great,  loving 
eyes  of  Tonio  this  fact  is  perceptible ;  it  determines  him  to 
.speak. 

"  You  must  not  keep  me  long  !':  she  urges,  as  he  throws 
himself  full-length  at  her  feet:  "  it  would  be  rude  and  unkind 
in  me  to  disappoint  him." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  keep  you  long.  Viola,  will  you  unbraid 
your  hair?" — an  old,  unuttered  longing  suddenly  breaking 
forth  in  speech  at  this  moment  of  mingled  joy  and  bitterness. 

"  Are  you  mad,  Tonio  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,  just  a  little — harmlessly  insane  ;  I  sha'n't  bite 
you,  or  strangle  you,  but  I  want  to  see  your  hair  about  your 
shoulders — just  once — this  last  time^forever  !" 

"  Don't  speak  so  sadly.  Why  do  you  say  forever  f  I  am 
not  intending  to  sell  my  bonnie  locks,  as  the  other  girls  here 
do."  She  is  laughing,  but  Tonio  does  not  smile. 

"  I  will  never  ask  you  to  do  this  again ;  but,  Viola,  unbraid 
your  hair  for  me,  will  you  not?"  His  voice  is  so  tender,  his 
eyes  are  so  melancholy,  Viola,  half  smiling,  half  pouting,  obeys. 
Swiftly  unplaiting  the  thick  masses  of  bronze  hair,  she  shakes 
it  about  her  shoulders  in  rippling  waves. 

"  Are  you  content  ?"  she  asks,  smiling  out  of  the  shadowy 
veil. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  says,  in  low,  tremulous  tones,  gazing  at  her 
with  great,  wistful  eyes.  "Not  yet.  Content?  ha!  ha!" 
Such  a  forced,  unnatural  laugh. 

"  I  must  plait  it  up  now,"  Viola  says,  gathering  up  a  thick 
handful  after  a  moment  or  two. 

"  Wait,  Viola !"  Drawing  a  clasp-knife  from  his  pocket, 
Tonio  holds  it  towards  her.  "  Take  this,"  he  says,  "  and  cut 
me  off  a  long,  thick  tress  of  it.  You  said  you  would  not  sell 
it ;  but  you  will  sell  it  to  me,  for  I  shall  pay  a  heavy  price  for 
it.  Here,  cut  it  long  and  thick  !" 

Viola  takr.s  the  knife,  and,  holding  it  in  her  hand,  looks 
14 


]58  ,    SOVCL 

wonderingly  at  her  companion.  "What  do  you  want  with  it? 
What  will  you  do  with  a  tress  of  uiy  hair?"  she  asks. 

"No  matter;  give  it  to  me.  Viola,  do  you  hesitate?  I, who 
would  lay  down  my  life  for  you,  ask  this  of  you !" 

In  another  moment  the  wavy  tress,  shorn  close  to  the  head, 
thick  and  long,  lies  coiled  over  the  quick-beating  heart,  of 
whose  anguish  she  little  dreams. 

Was  it  the  perversity  of  fate  that  brought  Lyster  Rawdon 
down  from  his  nook  by  the  waterfall  in  time  to  be  a  spectator 
through  the  overhanging  foliage  of  this  touching  bit  of  senti- 
ment ?  "  The  deuce  !"  is  his  characteristic  exclamation,  as 
the  beautiful  vision  of  Viola  tendering  her  love-token  to  her 
rustic  swain  breaks  upon  his  astonished  gaze.  Then  the 
bright  blonde  head  is  withdrawn  with  a  comic  grimace  of  vexa- 
tion on  the  flushed  face.  A  few  strides  carry  him  back  to  his 
cosy  retreat,  where  he  composes  himself  once  more  to  read. 
Alas !  Octave  Feuillet  has  become  even  more  tiresome  than 
M.  Balzac.  After  the  first  mechanical  perusal  of  a  paragraph, 
the  unfortunate  volume  is  flung  violently  against  a  tree-trunk 
and  suffers  dislocation  in  all  its  members. 

"  Wretched  little  coquette  !  deceitful  young  hypocrite !" 
apostrophizing  the  waterfall.  "  With  such  mock  humility, 
such  timid  modesty  !  Violet !  Pah  !  A  violet  made  by  the 
hands  of  a  French  modiste  from  a  bit  of  rag !  Lyster  Rawdon, 
you  were  very  near  making  a  fool  of  yourself;  but  you  are 
safe,  perfectly  safe  now  !" 

In  the  mean  time  Tonio  is  deepening  the  shadow  in  Viola's 
heart  and  dimming  the  joyous  light  in  her  sweet  face,  by  the 
few  necessary  words  he  has  resolved  to  speak.  What  they 
cost  him  she  never  knew ;  perhaps  he  suffers  more  than  she, 
bitter  as  this  hour  is  to  her. 

"  Did  you  think  that  I  could  stand  looking  on  silently 
whilst  this  man  stole  from  me  everything  on  earth  that  is 
precious  to  me, — for  his  amusement,  for  the  pastime  of  an 
hour, — as  he  would  pluck  a  flower  by  the  roadside  and  wear  it 
in  his  button-hole  until  another  fresher  flower  caught  his  eye 
and  this  one  would  be  cast  into  the  dust  at  his  feet  ?"  he  has 
said,  at  last ;  and  she,  shrinking  and  shivering  under  the  cruel 
words,  has  held  up  a  hand  as  if  to  ward  them  off,  crying, — 

"  Oh,  Tonio,  he  is  good  and  noble!     Whatever  you  say,  I 


VIOLA.  159 

shall  always  believe  that.  I  know  you  are  right — he  is  too  far 
above  me  for  any  hope  of  ruine  to  reach  him  ;  but — he  is  not 
evil-minded, — he  would  not  try  to  make  me  love  him,  as  you 
say,  to  mock  me.  No,  he  would  not  do  that." 

Her  voice  is  low  but  very  firm  as  she  says  these  words,  the 
more  positively,  perhaps,  because  in  her  inmost  heart  she  does 
not  believe  them  to  be  true.  For  does  she  not  love  him  ? 
Has  not  her  whole  soul  gone  out  towards  him  since  the  very 
first  day  she  sat  in  the  sunshine  drinking  in  the  musical  tones 
of  his  voice,  believing,  even  then,  that  the  world  held  not  such 
another?  And  then  had  he  not  lingered,  as  Tonio  had  said, 
long  after  his  convalescence  was  fully  established,  making  one 
pretence  after  another  excuse  for  tarrying  in  their  humble  cot- 
tage ?  Was  it,  could  it  be,  only  pastime  to  him,  and  heaven 
itself  to  her?  Viola  covers  her  convulsed  face  with  her  hands 
to  shut  out  from  Tonio  the  sight  of  her  bitter  shame. 

This  gesture  overflows  with  tender  pity  the  loving  heart 
beside  her.  His  own  grief  is  forgotten.  His  disappointment 
sinks  into  insignificance  before  her  pain.  "  Viola,"  he  says,  in 
stifled  tones,  "  perhaps — perhaps — he  loves  you  !  He  could 
not  help  but  love  you,  beautiful  as  an  angel  as  you  are !  Do 
not  grieve ;  sometimes  these  English  love  and  marry  women 
beneath  them  in  station.  Who  knows?  You  are  well  educated, 
— there  can  be  no  one  in  the  world  like  you  !" 

"  Hush  !  hush  !"  cries  Viola,  in  an  agony  of  distress. 

"  If  I  thought  that,"  continues  Tonio,  earned  out  of  him- 
self by  the  devotion  of  his  love,  "  I  would  go  away  gladly  this 
night.  I  could  go  out  into  the  world  and  fill  my  life  with 
other  things,  for  I  would  leave  you  happy  and  safe.  Viola. 
As  it  is,  I  must  just  stay,  tortured !" 

"  Why  tortured,  Tonio  ?"  she  asks,  wearily,  turning  her 
pale,  sad  face  towards  him. 

For  a  moment  he  remains  silent,  gloomily  absorbed  in  his 
thoughts  and  heedless  of  her  question ;  then  he  bursts  forth, — 

"You shall  not  always  look  down  upon  me, Viola;  I  am  not 
a  fool !  I  shall  one  day  stand  side  by  side  with — your  Eng- 
lish friend !" 

"  I  have  never  looked  down  upon  you,"  she  says,  softly, 
ignoring  the  bitterness  of  his  last  words ;  "  but  I  have  been 
selfi.sh  and  blind.  I  see  now  what  you  have  suffered;  I  see  it 
in  your  face  and — in  my  heart !" 


160  SOUCT. 

The  twilight  has  fallen  when  Tonio  and  his  companion  de- 
scend from  the  nook  on  the  hill-side,  which  they  shall  never- 
more occupy  with  light  hearts  together,  and  stand  hand  clasped 
in  hand,  pained  eyes  gazing  into  pained  eyes,  the  agony  of 
love's  hopelessness  in  his,  the  abnegation  of  love's  fair  promise 
in  hers,  bidding  each  other — for  the  first  time — a  sad  and 
constrained  good-night. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"OH,   WHAT   A   DREAR,    DARK    CLOSE   TO    MY   POOR    DAY!" 

"0  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale 
Or  sung  in  song  !     0  vainly-lavished  love  ! 
0  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange, 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in  love 
So  love  be  true  ?" 

HEINRICH,  leaning  on  the  gate,  peering  out  into  the  dusk 
with  unwonted  anxiety  in  his  wistful  face,  descries  the  figure 
of  his  Liebchen  emerging  from  the  gloom  with  slow,  heavy 
step,  contrasting  so  markedly  with  her  usual  elasticity  of  gait 
that  even  his  obtuse  perceptions  are  touched  into  sudden 
apprehension. 

"  Thou  art  late,  mem  Kindchen"  he  says,  gently  reproach- 
ful, as  she  forces  a  wan  little  smile  of  greeting.  "  And — thou 
art — alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  father,  I  am  alone,"  she  replies,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  the  Herr " 

"  I  know  not,"  she  interposes,  harshly  ;  and,  casting  a  nerv- 
ous glance  towards  the  porch,  where  a  dark  figure  is  just 
visible  in  the  gloom,  she  adds,  sharply,  "  Who  is  that  ?" 

Heinrich  can  feel  her  arm  tremble  in  his.  "  It  is  thy 
grandmother,  child.  Liebchen,  what  ails  thee  to-night?" 
Stooping  he  tries  to  read  her  trouble  in  the  white,  quivering 
face. 

"  Nothing  !  Ah,  father,  I  cannot  talk  with  you  to-night ! 
I  am  weary,  so  weary ;  I — what  is  that  ?"  (The  gate-latch 


VIOLA.  161 

is  lifted,  and  Jenkins  passes  them  on  his  way  to  his  master  for 
orders.)  "  Good-night,  dear,  I — he  is  there ;  he  may  come 
out !  Oh,  don't  keep  me  !  Good-night !"  And  pressing  her 
lips  to  the  wrinkled  hand  resting  lovingly  on  her  shoulder, 
Viola  speeds  up  the  garden-path  like  a  startled  fawn,  never 
resting  until  she  gains  her  tiny  white  bedroom,  wherein  she 
fastens  herself,  alone  with  her  sore  grief. 

With  a  heavy  sigh  of  dire  foreboding,  Heinrich  passes  out 
into  the  roadway,  with  his  violin  under  his  arm,  and,  seeking 
the  solitude  he  loves,  pours  into  the  great,  listening  ear  of 
night  the  hopes  and  doubts  and  troublous  misgivings  of  his  soul. 

His  placid  nature  has  been  stirred  to  its  depths  to-day;  the 
serenity  of  its  surface  shivered  into  ripples  of  emotion  such 
as  rarely  agitate  its  calm.  There  are  only  three  chords  in 
this  abnormal  nature  which  can  yield  electric  response  when 
touched.  These  are  his  passion  for  music,  his  love  for  his 
lost  wife,  and  Viola. 

The  wily  Frau  knows  well  how  to  play  upon  all  three. 

That  afternoon,  having  sought  Liebchen  vainly  below,  he  had 
mounted  to  his  mother's  room,  complaining  that  he  had  seen 
but  little  of  the  child  of  late,  and  inquiring  her  whereabouts. 
On  being  told  that  she  had  gone  to  the  nook  by  the  waterfall 
with  books  for  the  English  stranger,  he  had  been  about  to 
start  in  quest  of  her,  when  the  Frau,  seizing  him  fiercely  by 
the  arm,  peremptorily  forbade  him  to  stir  in  that  direction. 
Heinrich  venturing  a  feeble  resistance,  the  indomitable  old 
lady  had  promptly  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket. 

"  There !  Now  jump  out  of  the  window  and  break  those 
spindle-legs  of  yours  !"  she  had  burst  forth,  wrathfully.  "  Will 
you  never  be  anything  but  a  fool  ?  You  would  go  and  lose 
another  chance  of  having  yourself  provided  for  in  your  old 
age !"  The  cap-frills  had  come  within  an  inch  of  his  long 
nose,  and  her  voice  had  sunk  to  a  hoarse  whisper,  as  she  con- 
tinued :  "  He  is  as  mad  as  a  March  hare  about  her  !  Can't 
you  see  that?  No — of  course  you  never  see  anything ;  and 
these  English  are  to  be  depended  upon  when  a  beautiful  girl — 
and  a  well-brought-up  girl,  like  our  Liebchen — turns  their  silly 
ln-ads.  You  just  mind  your  fiddle-strings,  and  don't  go  med- 
dling and  marring,  and  before  this  time  next  year  perhaps  we 
shall  be  back  in  the  dear  old  Fatherland !" 

14* 


1G2  SOUCI. 

A  light  had  broken  over  Heinrich's  pinched,  pale  face  at 
this  blessed  hope:  " Ach,  Gott  in  Himmel !  Shall  I  then 
once  more  look  upon  my  beautiful  Rhine  ?  Shall  I  kneel  at 
last  at  the  grave  of  my  loved  one, — at  last — at  last  ?"  he  had 
rapturously  exclaimed,  while  great  tears  rolled  down  the 
sunken  cheeks  and  dropped  on  the  black  surface  of  the  instru- 
ment to  which  he  had  so  often  whispered  his  sad  longings. 
As  the  old  man  tenderly  wiped  off  the  bright  drops,  he  fan- 
cied that  the  delicate  strings  vibrated  in  sympathy  with  his  joy. 

******* 

"  You  may  put  up  my  traps  and  make  all  necessary  arrange- 
ments; we  shall  leave  this  place  to-morrow  morning,"  is  the 
order  the  delighted  Jenkins  receives  on  this  eventful  evening, 
and  which,  with  cheerful  alacrity,  he  obeys. 

Lyster  Rawdon,  after  a  long  and  fatiguing  ramble,  returns 
to  the  cottage,  and,  seeking  his  room,  throws  himself  dressed 
upon  the  bed  in  utter  weariness.  He  looks  very  young — 
almost  boyish — as  he  lies  there  with  the  moon  shining  full  on 
his  thin,  delicate  face,  with  the  clustering  rings  of  bright  hair 
pushed  off  the  temples  and  a  deep  flush  of  weakness  burning 
on  either  cheek. 

He  is  thinking  of  Viola,  and  of  the  scene  of  which  he  had 
unwittingly  been  a  witness  that  day  on  the  hill-side.  Try  as 
he  will  to  change  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  her  innocent 
face  and  wistful  eyes  intrude  themselves  with  most  irritating 
pertinacity.  In  vain  he  seeks  to  convince  himself  that  the 
pain  he  suffers  is  the  offspring  of  wounded  pride, — of  having 
seen  himself  worsted  by  a  simple  peasant-lad, — his  firm  belief 
in  the  purity  and  guilelessness  of  woman  betrayed  by  a  little 
village-girl.  In  vain  he  lashes  himself  into  auger  and  heaps 
reproaches  and  contemptuous  epithets  upon  poor  Viola :  his 
heart  only  yearns  towards  her  with  a  stronger,  deeper  yearn- 
ing. "  Oh,  beautiful  little  love !"  he  softly  murmurs,  as  he 
tosses  his  fevered  head  restlessly  upon  the  pillow :  "  how  in- 
nocent and  frank  she  seemed  always !  Before  her  true,  clear 
gaze  my  life  appeared  to  me  a  blurred  and  shameful  record ; 
before  her  true  refinement — her  spirituality  of  thought  and 
feeling — how  coarse  looked  the  polish  of  society, — the  veneer 
with  which  we  cover  our  selfishness  and  vileness  !  How  con- 
temptible does  our  world  seem  beside  her  great  universe  of 
Nature !  How  small  and  pitiful  our  aims  and  our  ambitions 


VIOLA.  163 

beside  the  grand,  glowing  aspirations  of  which  she  dreams  in 
her  lowly  valley !  And  I  am  to  leave  her  here — this  pure 
pearl  who  would  adorn  a  palace.  I  am  to  leave  her  to  this 
young  clod — this  inappreciative,  ignorant  boor — to  plod  on 

by  his  side  until By  Heaven  !  no  !  it  cannot  be !  She 

could  not  love  or  look  up  to  such  a  man  as  this !  And  if — 
oh,  delicious  thought ! — if  she  could  be  won  to  love  and — 

look  up  to — such  a  man  as "  Here  Lyster  finds  his  hot 

pillow  unendurable,  and,  springing  up,  he  seeks  coolness  at  the 
open  lattice,  stretching  out  his  arms  to  the  dewy  night, — moon- 
flooded — tranquil.  What  a  contrast  to  his  perturbed  spirit — 
his  throbbing  disquietude  ! 

Standing  thus,  idly  plucking  the  leaves  from  a  vine  clam- 
bering about  his  window,  Lyster  recalls  his  uncle's  farewell 
words  to  him  as  he  left  him  at  the  Harrowdale  Station  nearly 
a  year  ago:  "  Good-by,  my  dear  boy;  enjoy  yourself  thor- 
oughly ;  travel  wherever  the  whim  carries  you.  I  have  in- 
creased your  allowance  amply.  Take  a  good  twelvemonth  of 
idleness,  and  then  come  back  to  old  England  and  take  your 
chance  of  a  seat  in  the  House  and  your  choice  of  a  bride, — 
a  bride  who  shall  be  nameless  at  present,  my  boy,  but  whom 
I  shall  take  care  nobody  else  shall  win  during  your  absence. 
Your  future,  Lyster,  is  all  I  have  to  look  forward  to,  you 
know."  And  then  the  cold,  aristocratic  face  had  softened  for 
a  moment,  while  Lord  Harrowdale  wrung  his  nephew's  hand, 
as  the  train  moved  off,  carrying  with  it  the  one  human  object 
the  old  man  loved  above  and  beyond  all  else — save  his  pride 
of  caste,  and  his  ancient  name. 

With  a  fierce  impatience  Ilawdon  recalls  these  parting 
words ;  then  feels  inclined  to  laugh  aloud  at  the  absurdity  of 
his  uncle's  fancying  he  would  permit  any  one  to  choose  a  wife 
for  him ;  and  as  the  placid  features  of  the  English  maiden 
destined  to  be  his  consort  rise  before  him,  he  chafes  sorely 
at  the  contrast  between  her  commonplace  inanity  and  the 
changeful,  na'ive  sweetness  of  Viola's  winsome  face.  And  then 
he  wonders  why  fate  has  brought  him  here, — why  he,  who  has 
so  much  to  live  for,  and  such  vast  capabilities  for  enjoyment, 
should  have  been  brought  in  contact  with  this  unit  amid 
the  countless  millions  upon  earth ;  and  whether  this  fact  is 
to  take  the  savor  out  of  every  good  thing  in  life  for  him  here- 
after. Is  it  chance — or  God  who  has  done  this  thing  ?  who 


164  SOUCI. 

has  made  him  realize  suddenly  what  an  empty,  hollow  mock- 
ery  life  is  at  its  best, — its  best,  as  he  knows  it  ? 

Instinctively  he  raises  his  moody  face  and  drinks  into  his 
soul  something  of  the  calm  loveliness  of  the  golden  night.  In 
the  distance  can  be  heard  the  sad,  sweet  strains  of  the  "  Ver- 
gissmeinnicht"  borne  towards  the  village 

.  .  .  .  "  Upon  the  wings 

Of  silence  through  the  empty-vaulted  night j 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled. 

Heinrich  is  coming  home. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  LE   SEUL   VRAI   LANGAGE   AU   MONDE   EST   UN   BAISER." 

"  Men  let  themselves  slide  onwards  by  degrees 
Into  the  depths  of  madness :  one  bold  spring 
Back  from  the  verge  had  saved  them ;  but  it  seems 
There  dwells  rare  joy  within  it." 

THE  earth  seems  to  have  put  on  a  new  glory  this  morning, 
Viola  thinks,  as  though  it  would  offer  a  stronger  contrast  in 
its  garish  brilliancy  to  the  dull,  inward  listlessness  with  which 
she  had  opened  her  eyes  upon  it. 

The  white  walls  of  her  little  bedroom  seem  to  stifle  her ; 
the  sun  pours  down  his  fiercest  rays  through  the  narrow  case- 
ment ;  her  head  is  throbbing  painfully. 

Creeping  down  the  stairs,  she  noiselessly  unlatches  the  door 
and  steals  out  into  the  pure,  fresh  morning,  unconsciously 
directing  her  steps  towards  the  great  tree  under  which  the 
young  Englishman  had  partaken  of  his  first  meal  in  the 
open  air. 

How  vividly  that  day  comes  back  to  her  as  she  sits  in  the 
very  same  spot,  watching  the  same  sun  flecking  with  golden 
patches  the  greensward  ;  breathing  the  same  scent  of  the  wild 


VIOLA.  1G5 

honeysuckle  drooping  from  the  branches  overhead ;  listening 
to  the  same  drowsy  murmur  of  the  bees,  and  the  same  cool 
sound  of  running  water  from  the  brook  close  by  !  Nothing  is 
changed,  yet — all  is  changed. 

The  trail  of  the  serpent  can  be  traced  in  this  Eden.  Viola 
shall  never  again  look  upon  it  save  as  Eve  may  have  gazed 
across  the  flaming  sword, — with  hopeless  longing  and  through 
bitter,  blinding  tears. 

A  strange  lassitude  possesses  her  to-day.  She  leans  back 
against  a  tree,  and,  taking  off  her  hat,  thrusts  the  waving  hair 
from  her  hot  temples.  Her  thoughts  revert  self-reproachfully 
to  her  in-door  morning  duties,  but  she  has  neither  energy  nor 
inclination  to  stir  out  of  this  shady  spot  into  the  hot  sunshine. 

She  contemplates  herself  pityingly ;  her  life  seems  to  have 
suddenly  grown  stark  and  rugged  arid  void  of  ornament, — • 
that  beautiful  green  young  life  wherein  had  lain  all  the  fresh- 
ness and  sweetness  of  the  spring.  Tears  overflow  the  blue 
eyes,  and  Viola  feels  a  certain  satisfaction  in  seeing  them  drop 
one  by  one  upon  her  loosely-folded  hands, — a  satisfaction  which 
is  perhaps  shared  by  Lyster  Rawdon,  who  has  approached  un- 
perceived,  and  is  moved  to  hope  that  these  tears  flow  from, 
regret  at  his  departure. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  watches  her  with  fast-beating  heart, 
then,  making  a  little  rustle  among  the  brushwood  that  he  may 
not  startle  her,  he  draws  nearer. 

"  Do  not  go  !"  he  entreats,  as  she  springs  to  her  feet,  ready 
for  flight  at  sight  of  him.  "  Give  me  a  few  minutes  in  which 
to  say  good-by  ;  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Good-by  ?"  she  stammers,  the  bright  color  which  had  dyed 
her  cheek  for  an  instant  fading  slowly. 

"  Yes,  signorina,  good-by.  I  go  at  mid-day.  Had  you  not 
heard  of  it  ?"  (A  little  stiffly.) 

"  No;  I  had  not  heard  of  it,"  she  answers,  quietly. 

"  Your  father  knew  it  last  night ;  but  I  fancy  he  thought 
it  of  too  little  importance  to  mention  to  you,"  he  concludes, 
bitterly. 

Viola  is  silent.  She  stands  leaning  slightly  against  the  tree, 
her  face  down-bent,  her  cheek  yet  wet  Avith  tears.  She  cannot 
trust  her  voice  to  utter  the  polite  rejoinder  which  is  due. 

The  young  man,  chafing  inwardly  at  her  silence,  can  yet 
scarcely  restrain  himself  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss- 


166  SOUCI. 

ing  those  tantalizing  tears  away.  He  finds  relief  in  a  sudden 
assumption  of  anger. 

"Is  it,  then,  nothing  to  you  that  I  am  going?"  he  cries 
out,  at  last.  "  Are  you  a  waxen  image,  that  you  stand  there 
so  cold  and  still  ?  Have  these  weeks,  which  have  been  the 
happiest  of  my  life,  held  no  pleasure  for  you,  that  now  that 
they  are  gone  forever  you  show  no  regret?" 

"  Oh,  sir ! "  With  one  hand  she  covers  her  eyes, 

stretching  the  other  out  towards  him  in  eloquent  appeal. 

"  Then  you  do  care,  after  all !"  he  cries,  seizing  and  cover- 
ing with  kisses  the  delicate  fingers.  "Ah,  Viola,  tell  me 
that  you  too  suffer  in  this  parting  !"  And  he  draws  down  the 
hand  from  her  eyes  in  which  his  own  seek  eagerly  a  response. 

"  Pray  let  me  go !"  she  pants,  turning  her  face  this  way 
and  that  in  the  effort  to  e"vade  that  searching  glance.  "  Pray, 
pray  let  me  go  !" 

"I  cannot!"  he  says,  holding  her  hands  in  firm,  gentle 
grasp.  "  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  I  must  know  the  truth ! 
Viola,  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  anything  on  earth, — sweeter, 
more  beautiful,  more  pure  !  How,  then,  can  I  leave  you  with- 
out being  sure  that  you  are  not  indifferent  to  me  ?" 

These  are  far  from  being  the  farewell  words  he  had  in- 
tended to  speak.  Rashly,  impetuously,  the  sentences  follow 
one  another,  poured  forth  in  the  liberal  abandonment  of  a  first 
genuine  passion,  weighed  not  in  the  just  balance  of  judgment 
nor  chilled  by  the  icy  breath  of  worldly  prudence. 

He  had  sought  this  interview  calmly,  fortifying  himself 
against  the  betrayal  of  any  emotion  by  every  argument  with 
which  it  had  been  possible  to  arm  himself.  Honor,  pride, 
generosity,  all  forbade  any  expression  of  his  feeling.  Mar- 
shalling them  around  him,  leaning  upon  them  for  support,  he 
finds  them  the  puniest  flower-stalks  opposed  to  the  force  of 
the  temptation  which  assails  him. 

And  Viola,  forgetful  of  her  humiliation  the  night  before, 
oblivious  of  everything  save  the  delicious  consciousness  which 
stirs  into  ecstasy  every  fibre  of  her  being,  drinks  into  her 
heart  through  her  rosy  ears  the  pleading  music  of  the  voice 
she  loves,  and  yields  him  her  shy  response. 

What  of  Tonio's  warning  now  ?  Oh,  unjust  slanderer  !  Oh, 
wicked  libel !  How  needlessly  had  he  caused  her  to  suffer ! 


VIOLA.  167 

"  Viola,"  Lyster  says,  after  an  hour  spent  in  extorting  as 
many  timid,  wistful  glances  and  faltering  words  as  he  could 
draw  from  his  companion,  "  I  must  give  you  something  that 
will  remind  you  of  me, — something  you  can  wear  about  your 
neck,  and  then  you  will  be  obliged  to  think  of  me  twice,  at 
least,  every  day !''  As  he  speaks  he  rapidly  detaches  from  his 
watch-chain  a  simple  locket  of  Roman  gold,  on  one  side  of 
which  are  the  raised  letters  A.  E.  I.,  on  the  other  his  crest 
and  motto.  "  Do  you  know  what  those  letters  mean  ?"  he  asks, 
as  she  takes  the  locket  in  her  hand  as  reverently  as  though  it 
were  a  relic  of  sacred  antiquity. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  blushing ;  "  I  know ;  the  Contessa 
wore  a  bracelet  with  the  same  inscription  on  it." 

"  Will  you  wear  this  always,  Viola?  Will  you  let  me  find 
it  on  your  neck  when  we  meet  again?"  His  madness  has 
assumed  the  last  stage  of  recklessness  now. 

"  Oh,  sir,  perhaps  that  may  never  be  !"  she  says,  sadly.  "  I 
think  I  had  better  not  take  it ;  grandmother  might  not  be 
pleased, — and — and  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  I  shall  ever  see 
you  again."  Her  voice  is  very  low  and  tremulous  now,  but 
she  keeps  the  tears  resolutely  back. 

"  Nothing  is  certain,"  he  replies,  gravely.  "  I  may  not  live 
a  week — or  you,— but  as  surely  as  we  live,  Viola,  we  shall 
meet  again  !  I  do  not  need  any  reminder  of  you,  yet  I  have 
one.  See !"  he  adds,  more  lightly,  and  draws  from  his  pocket 
the  handkerchief.  "  May  I  keep  this  ?" 

'•  My  kerchief!"  exclaims  Viola,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"Yes,  your  kerchief;  embroidered  all  over  with  you; 
breathing  your  fragrance  to  me ;  white  and  soft  and  delicate 
as  you.  May  I  keep  it,  Viola?" 

"  Ah,  yes  !  If  I  could  only  give  you  something  more " 

"  worthy1"  she  is  about  to  say,  when  Rawdon  interrupts  her, 
passionately, — 

"  You  can  !  You  can  give  me  one  thing  more,  for  which  I 
would  give  all  that  I  possess  on  earth !  Will  you  give  it  me, 
sweet  Violet?" 

He  has  advanced  a  step  closer  to  her :  his  voice  has  sunk  to 
a  whisper ;  she  feels  his  heart  beat  fast  against  her  hand,  his 
breath  upon  her  cheek. 

One  instant  they  stand  thus :  motionless,  mute.  The  leaves 
of  the  trees  cease  their  rustlin  the  twitterin  of  the  birds 


168  SOUCI. 

overhead  is  stilled ;  a  strange  hush  seems  to  have  fallen  upon 
the  world.  Then,  as  the  face  of  a  flower  is  drawn  upwards  to 
the  sun,  Viola's  lifts  itself  to  Eawdon's, — her  true  eyes  raise  to 
his  their  liquid  tenderness ;  and  bending  his  head,  he  sets  his 
seal  forever  upon  the  trembling,  childlike  lips  so  trustingly 
upturned  to  his  own. 

A  moment  later  Viola  is  alone, — alone,  with  nothing  but 
the  locket  in  her  hand  to  convince  her  that  she  has  not  been 
dreaming ;  that  this  last  blissful  hour  has  not  been  conjured  up 
by  fancy  ;  that,  alas  !  it  has  indeed  been  the  last  hour,  and — he 
has  gone! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

RENUNCIATION. 

"  The  swan's  song  is  dying  away, 

Leaves  and  blossoms  have  faded  in  night  j 
How  dark  and  drear  is  the  day  ! 

Even  the  stars  no  longer  are  bright !" — HEINE. 

THE  days  immediately  following  Lyster  Rawdon's  departure 
are  the  happiest  in  all  Viola's  serenely  happy  life.  It  is  her 
first  taste  of  the  divine  elixir  men  call  love,  and  it  sends  the 
blood  coursing  though  her  young  veins  with  a  new  impetus, 
and  infuses  a  new  gladness  throughout  her  being.  Into  the 
delicate  check  comes  a  warmer  flush,  and  the  violet  eyes  hold 
in  their  depths  a  dewy  lustre  unknown  to  them  before. 

Snatches  of  song  and  low,  bubbling  laughter  overflow  her 
lips  as  she  speeds  light-footed  from  one  favorite  haunt  to  an- 
other, each  pervaded  still — so  it  seems — by  the  presence  of 
the  one  who  fills  her  thoughts. 

Beautiful  as  the  world  had  always  been  to  her,  it  is  now 
a  Paradise ;  the  inexhaustible  harmony  of  Nature  resounds 
about  her;  her  eyes  seem  to  have  opened  to  a  fuller  compre- 
hension, her  heart  to  have  unfolded  to  deeper  sympathies. 

Under  cover  of  the  dusky  twilight  she  whispers  to  her  father 
the  secret  of  her  new-born  joy ;  and  he,  tenderly  stroking  the 


VIOLA.  1G9 

golden  head  upon  his  breast,  returns  shy  murmurs  of  endear- 
ment only  ;  asking  never  a  question,  nor  striving  with  clumsy 
curiosity  to  tear  apart  the  petals  of  the  delicate  flower  whose 
calyx  has  but  just  opened  to  the  sun. 

For  Heinrich's  heart  has  grown  heavy  within  him  as  he 
listens, — not  with  the  loving  egotism  which  dreads  to  see  an- 
other usurp  his  place  in  his  child's  affections,  but  with  an 
indefinable  presentiment  which  seems  to  chill  back  the  loving 
words  he  fain  would  utter.  He  seeks  refuge,  therefore,  in  the 
mute  caresses  which  seem  all-sufficing  to  Viola's  supreme  con- 
tent, and  improvises  new  melodies  that,  spite  of  his  efforts, 
she  laughingly  declares  are  sad  as  requiems  and  not  suitable 
for  the  occasion. 

The  days  speed  by :  hot,  languid  summer  is  drowsing  lazily 
in  the  cool,  vigorous  arms  of  autumn,  and  Viola,  kneeling 
nightly  at  her  open  lattice,  sending  her  thoughts  out  prayer- 
winged,  as  is  her  wont,  thanks  God  for  the  great  blessing  which 
has  come  into  her  life ;  which  has  awakened  new  powers  and 
capabilities  within  her;  which  has  changed  her  humble  and 
prosaic  existence  into  a  poem  of  wondrous  beauty,  lifting  her 
out  of  this  narrow  valley  up  among  the  clouds  crowning  the 
blue  hills. 

Much  of  the  gladness  of  youth  depends  upon  the  indistinct- 
ness of  the  boundary-line  marking  its  horizon, — the  illimit- 
able outlook  of  hope  furnishing  endless  food  for  speculation. 
It  is  only  when  this  line  becomes  sharply  defined, — through 
time  or  calamity, — when  it  cramps  the  outstretching  of  one's 
dreams,  binding  them  down  to  the  dull  level  of  a  monotonous 
reality,  that  one  dares  not  lift  one's  eyes  beyond  the  barren 
present. 

Perhaps  the  very  intangibility  of  Viola's  love-dream,  the 
vagueness  of  her  hopes  and  expectations,  have  lent  a  trance- 
like  charm  to  her  new  experience,  which  causes  her  to  recoil 
•with  as  much  surprise  as  pain  from  the  shock  which  Lyster 
llawdon's  first  letter  from  England  brings  her. 

With  dilated,  tearless  eyes,  and  cheeks  whence  the  color  has 
been  htricken  by  pained  dismay,  the  poor  girl  draws  from  the 
somewhat  incoherent  but  impassioned  pages  that  love  such 
as  hers  holds  but  a  secondary  value  out  in  the  great  world 
towards  which  she  had  looked  so  eagerly ;  that  another  than 
himself  holds  the  power  to  separate  her  lover  from  her  forever, 
H  15 


170  SOVCL 

as  utterly  as  if  one  of  them  were  dead ;  that,  in  short,  her 
dream  is  over,  and  it  is  full  time  that  she  should  awake. 

It  is  true,  Lyster  Rawdon  dwells  but  lightly  upon  Lord 
Harrowdale's  violent  opposition  to  his  choice  of  a  wife  ;  that 
he  treats  with  airy  indifference  the  fact  that  his  adherence  to 
such  choice  entails  upon  him  the  trifling  desagrements  of  his 
uncle's  wrath  in  the  present,  and  disinheritance  in  the  future : 
Viola's  loving  eyes  can  read  between  the  lines  the  disappoint- 
ment and  indignation  which  he  strives  to  hide. 

He  admits  that  he  has  been  ostracized  from  Harrowdale 
Court ;  that  he  is  in  London,  where  he  has  already  obtained  the 
promise  of  an  appointment  in  a  government  office,  "  which 
my  dear  old  irascible  uncle  calls  '  hiring  myself  out  as  an 
understrapper  at  a  little  less  than  the  wages  of  his  valet !'  " 

Then  follow  assurances  of  tenderest  affection  (youthful 
passion  needs  but  the  breath  of  opposition  to  fan  it  into  strong, 
enduring  flame), — pages  of  sweet  hyperbole, — ending  in  an 
earnest  entreaty  for  a  speedy  response. 

Then  Viola  discovers  that  her  cross  is  shaped  after  the  usual 
model  of  renunciation  and  self-sacrifice.  Grim  and  rugged  it 
stands  between  her  and  all  possible  future  joy,  casting  its  drear 
shadow  over  the  face  of  the  world;  turning  the  blue  dawn  of 
her  young  day  into  thick  darkness,  through  which  even  the 
stars  have  lost  somewhat  of  their  twinkling  glory. 

The  poor  girl  gropes  sadly  through  the  shadows  which  en- 
velop her,  believing  the  light  of  the  sun  is  put  out  forever, — 
as  we  all  do  when  we  discern  the  great  emblem  of  sacrifice 
standing  in  our  life's  path  and  we  are  shrouded  in  swift,  sud- 
den darkness. 

Courage !  The  sun  will  shine  again,  little  Viola,  for  us  all. 
Did  it  not  burnish  the  earth  even  after  the  tree  built  cruciform 
darkened  the  day  on  Calvary  ? 


VIOLA.  171 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  WHAT  !     GONE   WITHOUT  A  WORD  ?" 

"What!  Gone  without  a  word? 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do ;  it  cannot  speak, 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  Frau's  knitting-needles  click  with  a  vengeful  energy 
this  morning  as  she  sits  with  perturbed  spirit  watching  Viola 
busy  at  some  household  duty.  The  change  in  the  girl's  whole 
appearance  does  not  escape  the  keen  old  eyes.  The  sweet  face 
pale  as  the  white  narcissus,  the  languid  movements  of  the 
slender  figure,  the  droop  of  the  bright  head, — these  ominous 
signs,  coupled  with  the  failure  of  the  young  Englishman  to 
"declare  himself"  before  his  departure,  fill  her  soul  with  a 
wrathful  mystification  which  dares  not  vent  itself. 

She  had  appealed  to  Heinrich — with  her  usual  success  :  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  betray  his  darling's  confidence,  nor 
his  approval  of  the  course  she  had  taken.  She  had  appealed 
to  Tonio,  only  to  discover  that  he,  too,  was  half  mad  with 
anxiety  and  repressed  indignation, — an  indignation  too  hot 
for  words,  which  drove  him  up  into  the  lonely  hills, — at  those 
hours  when  he  had  been  used  to  wander  so  happily  with 
Viola, — where,  alone  with  Nature  and  her  mysterious  sym- 
pathies, he  struggled  with  the  bitter  grief  the  fulfilment  of  his 
prophecy  had  cost  him. 

Out  of  his  love  for  this  girl  had  grown  such  delicate  tact, 
such  tender  reticence,  that  he  felt  it  impossible  to  purchase 
comfort  for  himself  at  the  expense  of  appearing  to  extort  from 
her  a  confidence.  And  yet  it  seemed  equally  impossible  to 
bear  the  anguish  to  which  doubt  had  given  birth  in  his  soul. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  go  on  living  with  that  sorrowful  pale 
face,  which  he  dared  not  openly  observe,  haunting  him  cease- 
lessly. They  seldom  spoke  together ;  for  Viola  had,  almost 


172  SOUCL 

instinctively,  avoided  him  of  late  ;  at  first  from  a  slight  feeling 
of  resentment  at  his  mistaken  judgment  of  Lyster  Rawdon's 
character;  afterwards  with  an  involuntary  shrinking  from  the 
pained  pity  of  his  furtive  watching  eyes  (there  are  wounds  to 
which  the  probing  eye  of  love  is  torture).  The  knowledge  that 
he  loved  her  made  all  intercourse  between  them  at  this  time 
impossible.  Their  friendship  was  ended.  As  well  try  to  plant 
the  delicate  crocus  of  spring  in  the  arid  soil  about  a  volcano, 
as  seek  to  build  up  a  platonic  affection  upon  the  treacherous  calm 
of  passion  held  in  temporary  check.  Never  again  could  these 
two  look  to  each  other  for  that  companionship  which  had  once 
amply  sufficed  them.  Nevermore  would  they  ramble  side  by 
side  through  the  early  budding  spring  from  one  delicious  haunt 
to  another, — moss-carpeted,  vocal  with  bird-notes,  all  veiled  and 
dim  with  blossom.  Nevermore  should  they  steal  out  of  the 
colorless  commonplace  into  an  ideal  world  of  their  own, — a 
world  in  which  they  drank  from  the  fount  of  knowledge  with 
eager  lips  ;  in  which  Tonio  sat  meekly  at  the  feet  of  his  gentle 
instructress,  laughing,  blundering, — scolded  and  praised  by 
turns, — turning  life  into  an  idyl  of  golden  sunlight  and  cool 

shadow  and  poetic  vagaries. 

******* 

"Tonio  has  gone  away!  He  took  a  place  in  the  diligence 
last  night,  which  started  at  sunrise  this  morning !''  The  Frau 
makes  this  startling  announcement  at  breakfast,  a  day  or  two 
later,  with  that  stolid  absence  of  surprise  or  emotion  charac- 
teristic of  her.  Heinrich  receives  the  intelligence  with  a 
heavy  sigh ;  Viola,  with  a  sudden  flicker  of  color  in  the  white 
cheek  and  a  sadder  droop  of  the  head.  The  old  woman 
glances  sharply  from  one  to  the  other  and  shrewdly  concludes 
that  this  is  no  news  to  them. 

"You  know,  then,  that  he  is  gone?  and  why,  perhaps?" 
she  demands. 

Viola  is  silent ;  her  eyes  are  downcast. 

"  I  do,"  Heinrich  hastens  to  reply.  "  He  was  with  me 
nearly  all  last  night " 

"  Well?     And  why  did  he  go?    Did  his  employer  turn  him 
off— or  what?" 
^  "  Razzi  was  sorry  enough  to  see  him  go,  and  offered  to  double 

his  wages  if  he  would  stay "  returns  her  son  under  cover 

of  his  hand,  by  which  he  strives  to  shut  out  her  curious  gaze. 


VIOLA.  173 

"Then,  what  took  him  away?"  she  reiterates,  doggedly. 

"  The  tWnjpnce"  Hcinrich  replies,  softly,  and,  seizing  his 
hat,  makes  his  escape  into  the  garden,  while  the  thwarted 
Frau  gathers  together  the  untouched  dishes,  muttering, — 

"  A  good  job :  he's  gone  anyhow ;  perhaps  the  other  will 
come  back  now.  So  /"  And  then  she  bids  Viola  go  outside  in 
the  sun  and  get  some  color  into  her  face,  which  command  the 
girl  hastens  to  obey. 

"Didst  thou  hear  him  playing  the  '  Vergissmeinnichf 
under- thy  window  last  night,  mein  Liebchen?"  whispers  Hein- 
rich,  as  she  seats  herself  on  the  bench  beside  him  in  the 
shadiest  and  most  remote  corner  of  the  garden.  "  He  bade 
me  tell  thee  it  was  his  farewell !  Ah,  my  little  heart,  Tonio 
loves  thee  well !" 

"  Where  did  he  go,  my  father?"  she  hurriedly  asks,  hoping 
to  turn  the  current  of  the  old  man's  thoughts. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  the  medallion  which  he  wears  about  his 
neck  ?" 

«  Ah,  yes." 

"  There  is  an  address  engraved  within  the  lid, — of  the  jewel- 
ler who  mounted  the  portrait  of  his  mother.  Stay — here  it 

is — I  have  it  somewhere "     He  draws  from  his  pocket  as 

curious  a  medley  of  useless  rubbish  as  any  school-boy  would 
delight  in  :  first  a  bit  of  rosin,  followed  by  a  ball  of  twine  for 
tying  up  rose-bushes,  a  couple  of  speckled  pebbles,  some  bits 
of  quartz,  a  snuff-box  (empty),  some  withered  grasses,  a  knife 
(bladeless),  a  microscope,  and,  lastly,  a  crumpled  piece  of 
paper  on  which  is  inscribed,  in  Tonio's  handwriting,  "Carlo 
Guocchi,  Strada  Ealbi,  Geneva."  Viola  reads  these  words 
with  languid  interest,  while  Heinrich,  restoring  his  treasures 
to  his  pocket,  draws  his  bow  tenderly  across  the  strings  of  his 
violin.  "  How  strange,"  she  murmurs,  "  that  this  link  with 
his  mother's  past  has  never  attracted  his  attention  before  now! 
Will  he  write,  dost  thou  think,  to  say  whether  this  jeweller 
still  lives?" 

"  Yes,  he  promised  to  write ;  but,  oh,  Liebchen,  we  shall 
miss  him  sorely, — he  was  a  noble  lad, — and  he  would  have  given 

his  life  for "     But  Viola  has  slipped  away,  and  Heinrich 

is  left  to  bewail  the  loss  of  his  young  friend  in  the  hearing 
only  of  the  humming-birds  and  the  butterflies. 

15* 


174  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BESTING  UNDER   THE   SHADOW   OP   THE    GOURD. 

"Why  sit  and  dream  in  spring's  sweet  labor-time 

Unreal  dreams,  whose  sadness  makes  them  sweet, 
And,  since  we  mar  and  break  our  life's  full  prime, 

Deem  that  we  rest  contented  at  God's  feet? 
Why  cry  to  heaven  for  lost  and  broken  hours, 

For  faith  and  hope  that  faded  long  ago, 
When  still  within  our  hearts  new  fruitful  powers 

Are  budding  now  ?" 

THE  end  of  the  week  brings  the  promised  letter,  which, 
being  written  in  Italian,  Heinrich  finds  much  difficulty  in  de- 
ciphering. Hatless,  and  with  the  open  letter  in  his  hand,  he 
sallies  forth  in  search  of  Liebchen.  It  is  some  time  before 
he  finds  her,  for  she  is  not  in  any  of  her  familiar  nooks,  and 
he  is  about  giving  up  in  despair,  when  he  catches  a  glimpse 
of  her  walking  slowly  and  dejectedly  along  the  road  leading 
from  Porno  d'Ossola. 

She  had  gone  herself  to  the  post-office  to  seek  the  letter 
which  she  longed,  yet  dreaded,  to  receive, — the  last  of  those 
angry,  bitterly-reproachful  epistles  with  which  Lyster  Rawdon 
sought  to  shake  her  resolution,  by  pointing  out  the  grave  error 
of  her  ways  in  regard  to  himself. 

She  had  wept  sorely  over  this  letter,  and  her  sweet  face  still 
bears  traces  of  tears,  when  Heinrich  approaches,  joyfully  ex- 
hibiting Tonio's  letter,  and  begging  to  have  it  speedily  read 
to  him,  too  eager  to  observe  her  agitation.  The  reception  of 
a  letter  is  a  solemn  event  in  this  village  between  the  Alps. 

When  the  Domo  d'Ossola  post-bag  contains  anything  for 
Vogogna,  which  is  rarely  the  case, — the  inhabitants  of  that 
hamlet  having  few  interests  or  acquaintances  beyond  their 
valley, — the  driver  of  the  diligence  takes  charge  of  the  letters 
and  distributes  them  in  person  to  their  owners  with  an  air  of 
grave  mystery  and  importance. 


VIOLA.  175 

Viola  takes  Tonic's  first  letter  from  her  father's  hand  without 
a  word, — there  are  so  many  tormenting  thoughts  besieging  her 
at  this  moment, — but  before  she  has  read  many  lines  she  has 
forgotten  her  own  trouble  in  genuine  gladness  at  the  joyful 
prospect  which  has  opened  before  her  friend. 

"  DEAR  HEINRICH," — his  letter,  which  is  dated  "  Genoa,"  be- 
gins,— "  wish  me  joy  !  My  head  is  in  such  a  whirl  I  hardly  know 
what  to  tell  you  about  first.  So  many  unexpected  things  have 
happened  !  But  I  will  begin  at  my  arrival  here.  We  reached 
Genoa  at  night,  and  I  put  up  at  a  little  hotel  near  the  station, 
.  to  which  I  was  directed  by  a  fellow-passenger.  The  next 
morning  I  spent  fitting  myself  out  at  the  tailor's,  hatter's,  etc., 
and  then  I  sought  the  Strada  Balbi,  where  I  soon  found  the 
jeweller's  shop  with  '  Carlo  Guocchi'  on  a  sign  over  the  door. 
Upon  inquiry,  I  found  that  Signore  Guocchi  had  retired  from 
business  and  resided  at  his  villa  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 
I  soon  fuund  the  villa,  and,  seeing  an  old  gentleman  saunter- 
ing in  the  grounds,  I  spoke  to  him,  and  was  kindly  invited  to 
enter  the  house. 

"  You  can  imagine  my  delight,  dear  friend,  when  as  soon 
as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  medallion  he  grasped  me  cordially 
by  the  hand,  and  assured  me  that  he  perfectly  remembered 
setting  the  beautiful  portrait,  and  the  minute  directions  which 
the  young  officer  had  given  him  in  regard  to  it.  The  picture 
had  been  painted  in  Genoa,  where  my  mother  resided  at  the 
time,  and  he  believed  the  artist,  who  was  a  very  promising  one 
then,  still  lived  there.  The  old  gentleman  said  that  I  resem- 
bled my  mother  remarkably,  and  that  the  moment  he  had 
seen  me  I  had  recalled  a  well-remembered  face. 

"  Oh,  Heinrich,  dear  old  friend  !  how  can  I  write  calmly  of 
what  followed  ? 

"^Signore  Guocchi  accompanied  me  to  the  atelier  of  the 
artist,  and,  after  waiting  an  hour,  which  seemed  like  a  dozen 
to  my  impatience,  a  man  of  about  middle  age  came  in,  and  I 
was  presented  to  him  as  the  son  of  il  Capitano  Benotti!  (I 
who  had  never  had  any  other  other  name  than  '  Tonio  !')  The 
artist  looked  with  great  interest  at  the  picture,  which  had  been 
one  of  his  first  efforts,  he  said,  and  told  me  many  particulars 
about  my  parents,  whom  he  had  known  well,  lie  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  my  father  was  dead ;  for,  although  he  had 


176  souci. 

heard  of  his  having  been  taken  prisoner  during  an  engage- 
ment with  the  French,  he'  had  understood  that  he  was  a 
prime  mover  in  the  republican  insurrection  at  Milan  only  six 
years  ago.  Seeing  that  I  was  much  excited  by  this  doubt 
thrown  upon  the  assertion  of  old  Niccolo  (the  corporal,  you 
remember,  who  carried  me  to  France),  he  mentioned  the 
name  of  a  gentleman,  a  Genoese,  who  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  my  father's,  and  wrote  me  a  note  of  introduction  to  him, 
believing  that  he  could  give  me  correct  information  on  this 
point.  I  could  not  delay  a  moment ;  my  impatience  to  ascer- 
tain whether  I  had  indeed  a  living  parent  increased  almost  to 
madness.  After  bidding  the  artist  and  Signore  Guocchi  a 
hasty  good-morning,  I  ran,  rather  than  walked,  to  the  address 
indicated,  taking  but  a  moment  now  and  then  to  interrogate 
those  whom  I  passed  on  the  way.  At  last  I  arrived !  Oh, 
Heinrich,  my  heart  aches  with  joy  !  /  have  a  living  father  ! 

11  He  is  leading  a  retired  life  in  his  villa  at  Sorrento,  and  is 
still  lame  from  the  wound  received  sixteen  years  ago ;  the 
wound  which  caused  him  to  be  made  a  prisoner,  and  me  to 
lose  my  father  for  so  many  years  ! 

"  Tell  your  Liebchen  !     She  will  rejoice  as  the  angels  in 
heaven  do,  that  I  have  found  something  to  make  life  possible. 
"  Always,  dear  Heinrich,  your  grateful 

"  TONIO." 

Across  this  he  had  written,  "  You  will  greet  the  good  Frau 
for  me,  and  farmer  Razzi,  and  you  will  remember  your  promise 
to  write  me  of  her  who  is  dearer  to  .me  than  life/' 

"  Thou  must  do  the  writing,  Liebchen ;  my  fingers  have 
grown  too  stiff  to  guide  a  pen.  He  will  not  mind  who  writes, 
so  that  he  hears  news  of  thee,"  Heinrich  had  said,  as  she 
folded  up  the  letter  and  returned  it. 

"  Yes,  I  will  write,"  she  had  answered,  absently,  her 
thoughts  reverting  for  a  cruel  second  to  that  other  letter  to 
which  she  could  not  respond. 

Then  they  talked  together  over  the  wonderful  change  in 
Tonio's  life, — the  delight  of  his  father  in  discovering  his  noble- 
looking,  true-hearted  son, — the  crime'of  the  little  corporal  in 
kidnapping  the  child ;  and  gradually  the  sweet  face  of  Viola 
had  resumed  its  habitual  serenity ;  the  lips  had  smiled  occa- 
sionally at  some  quaint  speech  of  her  father's,  and  she  had 


VIOLA.  177 

forgotten  for  a  brief  while  the  gnawing  pain,  which  was  lulled 
momentarily  by  her  unselfish  sympathy. 

Like  Jonah,  she  rested  gratefully  under  the  shadow  of  the 
gourd  which  had  sprung  up  miraculously  in  her  hour  of  sorest 
trial.  But,  alas,  "  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to  live  !"  was 
the  exceeding  bitter  cry  which  rent  the  heart  of  the  son  of 
Amittai  when  he  sought  in  vain  on  the  morrow  that  refresh- 
ing shade,  and  lo  !  "  it  had  perished  in  a  night." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  FADETH    SWEETE   FLOWER,  AND    BEAUTY    PALES   AWAY  !" 

"The  world  hath  not  another 
Of  such  a  finished,  chastened  purity." 

IN  spite  of  her  pre-eminent  beauty  and  her  superior  attain- 
ments, Viola  is  dearly  loved  in  the  village,  where  by  her  sweet 
temper  and  genial  kindness  she  escapes  even  the  inevitable 
detraction  of  the  less  favored  of  her  sex. 

The  episode  of  the  young  Englishman's  accident,  conse- 
quent illness,  and  protracted  stay  had  not  been  observed  with- 
out comment ;  while  in  the  fervid  imagination  of  every  youth 
and  maiden  in  Vogogna  arose  divers  conjectures  in  regard  to 
the  possible  termination  of  the  romantic  incident.  Perhaps 
among  the  older  and  graver  of  the  villagers — among  those 
who  knew  life  to  be  what  it  is — there  were  head-shakings  and 
ominous  whisperings  and  mutterings  as  they  looked  on  at  the. 
pretty  pastime  which  might  have  a  tragic  ending. 

But  when  that  ending  came — when  the  gay  young  lover  rode 
away  and  the  beautiful  face  had  grown  sorrowful  and  the  sweet 
ringing  laugh  was  stilled — they  were  filled  with  resentment, 
these  dark-browed  peasant-girls,  while  they  clung  more  closely 
to  their  respective  swains,  seeing  how  lightly  those  so  far  above 
them  made  their  vows  and — forgot  them.  Viola  shrank  from 
the  silent  sympathy  she  read  in  their  homely  faces,  and  held 
herself  for  a  time  aloof  as  well  from  the  oppressive  gayety  of 

H* 


178  SOUCI. 

her  young  companions  as  from  the  kindly  greetings  of  their 
sad-eyed  elders. 

And  so  the  slow  months  crept  on,  not  altogether  unhappily, 
for  Viola  was  too  healthful  morally  to  allow  a  selfish  sorrow 
to  monopolize  her  thoughts  and  feelings ;  but  lagging  some- 
what, she  thought,  and  making  unusual  pauses  between  the 
seasons. 

Her  walks  and  talks  with  her  father  were  resumed  as  if  they 
had  never  been  interrupted ;  her  household  duties  were  per- 
formed as  dexterously  and  as  cheerfully  as  though  no  shadow 
had  ever  dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  or  faded  the  color 
of  her  cheek.  Only  Heinrich's  apparently  unobservant  glance 
noted  the  lack  of  elasticity  in  the  step,  the  listless  languor 
which,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  sometimes  overcame  her,  and  his 
heart  sank  within  him.  She  was  always  ready,  however,  to  go 
out  with  him,  to  listen  and  smile,  if  not  quite  with  the  old  joy- 
ousness,  at  his  odd  and  childlike  sayings  ;  eager  to  penetrate  by 
his  aid  into  the  occult  mysteries  of  plants  and  learn  the  deep 
heart^secrets  of  flowers ;  ready  to  admire  and  rapturously  ap- 
plaud every  new  composition  in  which  he  poured  out  his  love 
for  all  beautiful  things  through  the  voice  of  his  instrument ; 
glad  to  sit  in  a  quiet  dream  of  sad  delight  as  the  old  favorite 
airs  trembled  forth  weighted  with  their  sweet  and  bitter  asso- 
ciations. But  when  their  walk  grew  longer  than  usual, — 
Heinrich  playing  always  as  he  walked,  and  forgetting  time  and 
distance, — Viola  would  timidly  remind  him  that  they  were  far 
from  home.  Then  he,  with  a  remorseful  pang,  would  take  note 
of  the  exhausted  look  in  her  sweet,  pale  face,  while  a  hand 
of  ice  seemed  to  clutch  his  heart  as  he  marked  the  rapid 
breathing,  the  strangely-uncertain  step,  and  the  futile  effort 
she  would  make  to  laugh  at  his  sudden  panic. 

"  Thou  art  fretting,  mein  Liebchen"  he  said  one  night,  as 
they  walked  home  slowly  under  the  starlight.^  "  No,  not 
about  that"  he  added,  quickly,  at  a  gesture  of  dissent  from 
her.  "  Thou  art  too  brave  and  strong  to  regret  having  done 
the  right  thing  there, — the  only  thing,"  there  w.as  a  sudden 
vibrating  passion  in  his  utterance,  "  that  thou  couhht  do  with- 
out bringing  sharp,  bitter  pain,  humiliation,  self-reproach  upon 
thyself  for  all  future  time.  Ah,  these  distinctions  of  class  !" 
he  continued,  raising  his  pale  face  skyward  and  sending  his 
gaze  beyond  the  black  line  of  the  mountains:  "  do  they  exist 


VIOLA.  170 

in  the  life  to  come,  I  wonder?  or  shall  we  then — then  in  the 
glorious  hereafter — have  the  desire  of  our  hearts  fulfilled  ? — 
thou  and  I,  my  Liebchen,  who  have  been  so  sorely  bereft 
here, — thou  and  I,  0  my  beloved !"  he  cried,  stretching  his 
arms  upward  with  a  yearning  tenderness  in  the  worn  face ; 
"  my  wife,  my  lily -bud  !  There  shall  be  none  to  part  us  there, — 
in  the  sight  of  the  great  God  we  shall  be  equal, — in  His  awful 

presence  we  are  all  alike  insignificant "  He  checked 

himself  suddenly. 

Viola  drew  nearer  to  him  with  tender  pity.  He  had  uncov- 
ered his  head,  and  big  tears  were  rolling  slowly  down  the  hol- 
low cheeks.  They  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
then  Heinrich  replaced  his  hat,  and,  drawing  the  bow  across  his 
violin,  played  softly  and  with  exquisite  delicacy  of  touch  the 
wild,  sad  refrain  of  the  "  Yerglssmeinnicht" 

"  Thou  art  like  a  caged  bird  here,"  he  said,  at  last,  looking 
down  upon  her  over  his  instrument,  "  pining  to  death  in  this 
dull  and  quiet  valley,  where  thou  hast  not  even  a  companion 
of  thine  own  age,  but  must  trudge  silently  along  beside  thy 
stupid  old  father- " 

Her  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  his  lips.  "  Ah,  do  not 
speak  like  that !"  she  entreated  ;  "  thou  art  more  to'me  than 
any  other, — and  indeed  I  am  not  fretting, — and  have  I  not 
Nina?" 

At  this  her  father  smiled  sadly,  and  passed  his  arm  caress- 
ingly about  her  shoulders. 

"  She  is  so  good,  and  so  grateful  for  even  a  kind  word," 
Viola  continued.  "  I  don't  think  anybody  ever  spoke  gently 
to  her  before, — certainly  not  the  old  man  she  calls  uncle :  he 
is  very  cruel  to  her.  Dost  thou  know,"  here  she  lowered  her 
voice  to  a  whisper,  "  that  he  often  strikes  her, — that  poor  little 
humpbacked  girl !  and  that  when  she  came  to  him  first  she 
7/vx  us  straight  as  I  am!  Ah,  I  can  never  believe  that  man 
is  her  own  uncle  !  surely  no  one  could  be  so  inhuman  to  one's 
own  blood !" 

She  was  startled  by  a  harsh  laugh  breaking  from  Heinrich. 

"No?"  he  said,  with  the  nearest  approach  to  a  sneer  she 
had  ever  heard  from  those  gentle  lips.  "  No  ?  Thou  knowest 
nothing  of  life,  my  little  heart !  There  is  no  depth  of  cruelty 
more  black,  more  pitiless,  than  that  practised  on  one's  <>\\n 
blood  sometimes ;  there  are  passions  which  have  stronger  root 


180  SOUCL 

in  human  hearts  than  any  tie  of  consanguinity, — pride, — or 

the  love  of  money "  Again,  with  an  effort,  at  self-restraint, 

he  stopped  suddenly,  and,  resuming  his  usual  serenity,  asked. 
"  And  she  learns  quickly  ?  thou  hast  taught  her  to  read.  I 
hear?" 

"  Yes :  to  read,  and  different  kinds  of  needle-work.  She  is  so 
patient  and  persevering !  She  can  embroider  now,  and  make  lace 
nearly  as  fine  as  that  grandmother  made  when  she  was  a  girl. 
This  I  taught  her  to  save  her  from  the  mushroom-gathering, 
and  her  uncle  is  quite  willing,  because  she  sells  her  work 
in  place  of  the  mushrooms.  I  never  shall  forget  how  she 
was  moaning  when  I  first  discovered  her  stooping  over  her  work 
in  the  chill  evening  after  bending  over  her  spinning-whe^l  all 
day !  Oh,  it  was  such  pleasure  to  see  the  bright,  glad  look 
come  into  her  poor,  dull  face  when  I  spoke  to  her  !  It  was  like 
seeing  a  dark,  heavy  cloud  roll  away  from  before  the  sun, 
making  the  gray,  sad  world  look  merry  and  green  again.  Yes, 
Nina  has  been  a  great  blessing  and  joy  to  me !" 

"  And  came  to  thee  when  thou  most  needed  her,"  mur- 
mured the  old  man ;  "  as  thou  didst  come  to  me,  mein  Lieb- 
chcn,  in  the  dark  hour  when  my  heart  was  nigh  breaking." 

"  So  God  helps  us  to  bear  the  pain  He  sends,"- she  returned, 
softly.  "  No  one  need  despair,  or  believe  that  life  is  left 
empty :  there  is  sure  to  be  another  interest  and  another  love 
ready  to  fill  the  void ;  no  one's  life  need  be  an  arid  waste " 

"Like  mine!"  interrupted  Heinrich,  with  a  quick  «igh.  as 
he  unlatched  the  gate  to  allow  her  to  pass  into  the  little 
garden. 

Viola's  good-night  kiss  had  a  deeper  tenderness,  as  the 
trembling  hand  was  laid  upon  her  head  in  silent  blessing, 
when  they  separated  a  moment  later. 


VIOLA.  181 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN   UNWELCOME   SUITOR. 

".  .  .  .  And  is  not  love  in  vain 
Torture  enough  without  a  living  tomb  ?" 

"  My  resolution's  placed,  and  I  have  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me ;  now  from  head  to  foot 
I'm  marble  constant."  .... 

"  HAVE  you  waited  long,  picciola  f  asks  Viola,  as  she 
enters  the  cottage  sitting-room  one  summer  afternoon,  where 
Nina — shrunken  into  her  smallest  possible  compass — sits, 
scarcely  daring  to  breathe  in  the  presence  of  the  stern-eyed, 
silent  Frau,  who,  bolt  upright  in  her  great  arm-chair,  is  knitting 
with  an  indefatigable  Penelopic  industry, — the  day's  work  seara- 
intr  by  some  strange  fatality  to  become  unravelled  during  the 
ninht,  for  the  gray  leg  always  appears  to  hang  from  those  four 
energetic  needles  at  precisely  the  same  point  of  incompletion. 

So  N-ina  thinks  as  she  watches  the  busy  fingers,  which  have 
a  sort  of  terrifying  fascination  for  her,  dropping  her  eyes  to  the 
ground  whenever  the  silver-rimmed  spectacles  turn  towards  her. 

"  Not  very  long,  Viola,"  she  cries,  in  reply  to  her  friend's 
greeting,  coming  towards  her  with  a  glad  alacrity,  which  bring* 
a  loving  smile  to  Viola's  lips,  as  she  passes  one  arm  about  the 
deformed  shoulders  and  asks, — 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  Nina?" 

"  Where?  Why,  they  have  been  dancing  on  the  green  for 
half  an  hour !"  cries  the  child.  "  And  I  fear,  oh,  I  very 
much  fear  that  Pepita  Ruzzi  will  be  crowned  queen  of  the 
fi'xtn  in  your  stead." 

';  And  what  then,  picciola  f  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  glad.  I 
have  been  crowned  too  often  .  already,  and  Pepita  is  the 
prettiest  girl  in  the  village,"  returns  Viola,  listlessly,  as  they 
pass  through  the  garden-gate  into  the  roadway. 

16 


182  soucr. 

"  Ah,  Viola,  that  is  not  quite  true.  Pepita  is  like  a  big, 
full-blown  sunflower,  and  you  are — you  are  like  a " 

"  Like  a  withered  sunflower  !"  smiles  Viola. 

"No,  no;  you  are  like  the  inside  of  the  great  sea-shell 
uncle  has,  or  like  a  wild  white  rose,  so  pale  and  delicate  and 
sweet.  Oh,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  Pepita  crowned  to-day !" 
And  she  hastens  her  steps  anxiously. 

"Nina,  carissima,  I  do  not  feel  like  dancing  to-night;  it 
tires  me  so  that  I  cannot  sleep.  Let  us  go  to  the  nook  by  the 
waterfall,  and  I  shall  tell  you  a  story  that  I  read  yesterday. 
Such  a  pretty  story,  Nina  !" 

The  child  turns  and  looks  steadily  up  into  Viola's  clear 
eyes.  "  Are  you  doing  this  for  me  because  I  do  not  dance 
and  you  know  that  I  love  your  stories,  or  are  you  doing  it 
because  that  man  I  hate,  that  Signore  Barbesi,  is  waiting  to 
dance  with  you  ?" 

"  It  is  because  he  is  there ;  yes,  Nina,  and  because  I  do  not 
ever  wish  to  see  him  again,  and  because  it  tires  me  to  dance, 
as  I  said."  Viola  walks  rapidly,  while  a  faint  flush  dyes  for 
a  moment  the  transparent  cheek. 

"  Then  he  may  wait,  and  scowl  at  everybody  because  you  do 
not  come,  as  long  as  he  pleases.     You  are  right  to  hate  him :  ^ 
he  is  a  wicked  man  !     Ah  !"  she  shivers,  "  his  eyes  make  me 
creep  all  over !" 

"  We  will  not  talk  about  him,"  says  Viola,  gently  ;  "  we  will 
try  to  forget  that  he  ever  came  to  Vogogna,  if  we  can."  And 
they  take  the  path  leading  away  from  the  music  of  the  violin 
and  up  towards  the  music  of  the  waterfall. 

"  If  we  can"  Viola  had  said.  Alas,  was  she  ever  per- 
mitted to  forget  this  man's  existence  since  the  first  unlucky 
day  when,  passing  along  the  road  in  the  diligence,  he  had 
caught  sight  of  the  fairest  face  his  eyes  had  ever  been  dazzled 
by,  and  with  the  bold  confidence  of  a  low-class  Lothario  had 
descended  from  his  perch  and  followed  the  terrified  girl  to  her 
home  ?  Something  in  her  modest  demeanor  and  in  the  erect 
carriage  of  her  head  had  warned  even  his  coarse  instincts  that 
it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  address  her ;  but  acquaintance 
is  soon  formed  in  these  primitive  hamlets,  his  experience  had 
taught  him,  and  so  he  had  put  up  at  the  inn  and  bided  his 
time.  Prom  the  landlord  of  the  Corona  he  had  soon  learned 
all  that  he  cared  to  know  of  the  household  Hablemann,  viz.. 


VIOLA.  183 

that  the  father  of  this  beautiful  girl  was  an  imbecile  who  could 
be  twisted  around  the  thumb  of  a  child;  that  the  grandmother 
was  an  avaricious  old  wretch,  who  was  probably  a  miser,  and 
who  would  sell  her  soul — or  her  granddaughter — for  gold ; 
that  Viola  was  a  haughty,  overbearing  miss,  who  held  her 
head  above  her  neighbors  because  she  had  been  taught  to 
read  and  write  and  despise  her  betters.  Thus  the  little  man 
had  paid  off  a  long-standing  score. 

Choosing  a  favorable  moment,  during  the  absence  of  Hein- 
rich  and  his  daughter,  Signore  Barbesi  had  called  at  the  cottage, 
and  with  much  adroitness  succeeded  in  gaining  the  ear  of  the 
Frau.  His  plausible  manners,  his  gorgeously-decorated  person, 
his  craftily-exhibited  credentials  (which,  fortunately,  he  had 
with  him,  being  the  travelling  partner  of  a  well-known  jewelry 
establishment  in  Milan),  all  had  their  effect  in  breaking  up  the 
ice  of  the  old  woman's  suspicious  reserve,  and  before  the  visit 
ended  he_  had  obtained  her  permission  to  return  and  use  his 
best  endeavors  to  make  a  favorable  impression  upon  her  grand- 
daughter. For  the  old  German  woman  was  growing  des- 
perate ;  her  age  was  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  at  last ;  her 
eyes  were  growing  dim,  her  hearing  less  acute,  and  her  step 
more  faltering.  She  looked  at  the  dreamy,  helpless  Heinrich 
and  the  unprotected  girl  who  would  soon  be  obliged  to  work 
for  them  all,  and  her  heart  had  grown  bitter  within  her.  The 
wealthy  young  Englishman,  for  whom  she  had  schemed  so 
cleverly  and  upon  whom  she  had  built  such  gigantic  hopes, 
had  as  cleverly  extricated  himself  from  the  trap  which  had 
been  set  for  him.  There  was  little  chance  of  any  more  rich 
men  tumbling  down  precipice"  or  dropping  into  fevers  at  her 
door,  and  the  girl  was  fading  strangely  fast.  This  Milanese 
was  rich  and  well  established  in  business;  he  meant  to  marry 
Viola  if  he  could  succeed  in  gaining  her  consent.  The  old 
Frau  meant  that  he  should,  whether  he  gained  it  or  not.  So 
long  had  this  woman  bent  the  wills  of  those  about  her  to  her 
own,  so  long  had  she  held  the  reins  of  absolute  authority  in 
her  family,  that  she  had  begun  to  believe  that  the  acquiescence 
of  any  member  of  it  in  her  projects  was  only  a  question  of  time 
and  patience. 

To  Viola  this  proposal  of  marriage  had  at  first  appeared 
something  so  far  removed  beyond  the  range  of  possibility  that 
she  had  given  it  no  second  thought  after  her  distinct  and  firm 


184  SOUCI. 

refusal.  Then  had  commenced  a  series  of  persecutions  which, 
to  her  sensitive  and  highly-strung  organization,  were  galling 
and  irritating  as  myriad  gnat-stings. 

After  his  first  rebuff,  Signore  Barbesi  had  returned  to  Milan, 
from  whence  he  aimed  deadly  shafts  of  rose-colored,  musk- 
scented  missives,  sometimes  accompanied  by  small  velvet  cases 
containing  trinkets  of  an  insidious  attractiveness,  all  of  which 
were  politely  declined  and  given  into  the  Frau's  charge  to 
return ;  which  she  promptly  did,  accurately  divining  in  her 
astute  old  head  that  nothing  could  so  vigorously  fan  the  flame 
of  this  man's  passion  as  such  unusual  coyness  in  its  object. 

At  intervals  of  a  few  weeks  he  would  reappear  in  Vogogna, 
richly  attired  in  black  velvet  coat  and  waistcoat  relieved  by 
fanciful-  neckerchiefs  (in  which  figured  in  coral  the  several 
limbs  of  female  beauty),  and  dazzlingly  ornamented  by  finger- 
rings  and  shirt-studs  of  real  diamonds. 

The  Vogognese  looked  upon  him  with  admiring  awe ;  his 
arrival  being  the  signal  for  a  dance  on  the  green  and  for  an 
extraordinary  liberality  on  the  part  of  the  host  of  the  Corona 
to  all  whom  it  might  concern. 

At  first  Viola  had  been  fairly  driven  to  join  these  dances 
by  her  grandmother's  not-to-be-disputed  authority ;  but  later 
— when  the  very  presence  of  this  man  had  become  obnoxious 
— even  her  gentle  spirit  had  rebelled.  She  had  positively 
refused  to  dance  with  him  ;  to  receive  any  more  letters  from 
him  ;  to  encourage  by  a  look  the  attentions  which  he  forced 
upon  her.  Then  her  greatest  trial  began.  Hourly  was  she 
overwhelmed  by  the  bitterest  reproaches  from  her  grandmother, 
who,  with  a  sneer  at  her  father's  useless  life,  would  touchingly 
allude  to  her  own  declining  strength  ;  to  their  swiftly-decreasing 
means,  and  the  petty  sum  they  two  were  enabled  to  earn  by 
their  joint  industry ;  asking  her,  in  tremulous  tones,  where 
they  were  to  look  for  support  for  their  helpless  old  age  ;  where 
she  was  to  hope  for  any  better,  more  advantageous  offer  than 
this ;  which  would  provide  not  only  a  safe  home  for  her,  but 
also  a  comfortable  one  for  the  old  grandmother  who  had  spent 
her  aged  years  in  her  service  !  This  man  was  willing — nay,  glad 
— to  take  her  penniless,  and  burdened  with  as  many  conditions 
as  they  chose  to  exact.  He  would  not  trifle  for  an  hour 
and  then  shake  the  dust  off  his  feet  in  beating  a  hasty  retreat 
after  her  affection  c  had  been  won  !  No  ;  he  was  honest  and 


VIOLA.  185 

honorable  and  most  generous ;  he  meant  marriage ;  none  of  the 
selfish  fooling  of  men  above  her  in  station,  who  thought  it 
conferred  honor  on  a  pea.sant-girl  to  make  of  her  a  plaything 
for  a  holiday.  At  this  last  taunt  Viola  would  shiver  and 
shrink,  and,  bowing  her  gentle  head,  would  creep  out  into  one 
of  her  many  cells  in  the  great  heart  of  Nature,  and  pour  forth 
in  tears  the  woe  which  this  unjust  aspersion  of  her  love  had 
begotten. 

******* 

"  Which  shall  it  be,  Nina  ?  Shall  I  tell  you  the  story,  or 
read  Tonio's  last  letter  to  you  once  more?"  Viola  asks,  as  she 
draws  the  cripple  gently  down  on  the  softest  patch  of  moss  the 
nook  affords. 

"Oh,  read  the  letter !"  exclaims  the  girl,  her  long,  thin 
face,  with  its  lines  of  care,  growing  eager.  "  A  story  is  only 
a  story  after  all,  but  this  is  real,  and  as  beautiful  as  any  fairy- 
tale !  Ah,  was  it  not  lovely  how  he  met  his  father  again  after 
all  those  long,  long  years?  What  happiness  it  must  be  to 
have  a  father  of  one's  own  !  or  a  MOTHER  !  Oh,  Viola,  think 
of  it !  a  MOTHER  !"  The  toil-hardened  little  hands  clasp  each 
other  ecstatically  at  the  thought. 

"  Poor  little  Nina  !  your  mother  is  with  mine, — in  heaven  !" 
Viola  says,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  You  must  let  me  take  her 
place,  dear,  and  come  to  me  with  all  your  troubles  :  if  I  cannot 
prevent  them  I  can  at  least  love  you  the  better  for  them."  And 
she  kisses  her,  with  a  smile. 

Before.  Viola's  pitying  eyes  had  falten  upon  her  this  child's 
life  had  been  little  better  than  that  of  a  ground-mole.  She 
worked  mechanically,  suffered  dumbly,  while  the  eyes  of  her 
soul  were  fast-sealed  in  a  blind  and  terrible  ignorance.  How 
Viola  felt  her  own  trouble  shrink  into  insignificance  as  she 
contemplated  this  wretched  little  life !  What  balm  for  her 
own  pain  did  she  find  in  ministering  to  the  sadder  needs  of 
this  child  !  What  comfort  did  she  bring  into  her  own  lonely 
life  by  gathering  this  helpless  one  into  her  heart ! 

Thus,  drawn  together  by  invisible  bonds  in  the  great  kin- 
ship of  suffering,  the  maimed  heart  and  the  crippled  body 
make  each  the  other's  burden  tolerable. 

"  But  I  must  read  you  Tonio's  letter  !"  begins  Viola,  with 
an  effort  recovering  her  cheerfulness.  "  See,  here  it  is ;  such 
a  short  letter,  but  with  so  much  in  it,  Nina !" 

1C* 


186  SOUCL 

"  Yes,  yes !  please  go  on !"  implores  the  child,  with  her 
solemn  eyes  raised  as  expectantly  as  though  she  had  not  heard 
it  read  a  dozen  times  before. 

"  MY  DEAR  HEINRICH"  (Viola  always  signed  her  father's 
name  to  her  letters,  but,  as  the  old  man  naively  observed,  they 
were  none  the  less  welcome  to  Tonio  because  she  had  written 
them), — "  We  are  still  in  Sardinia,  my  father  and  I,  aiding 
Garibaldi  to  form  a  corps  which  is  authorized  by  the  govern- 
ment, and  is  to  be  called  the  '  Hunters  of  the  Alps'  ( Cacci- 
atori  delle  Alpi),  with  which  we  hope  soon  to  see  some  active 
service  in  the  war  just  breaking  out  with  Austria. 

"  What  a  good  man  he  is,  this  Garibaldi !  I  hear  from 
my  father  (who  is  on  his  staff,  and  his  constant  companion) 
daily  accounts  of  his  noble  fortitude,  his  simple  benevolence, 
and  his  heroic  efforts  to  uproot  the  abuses  of  a  tyrannical 
government.  He  penetrates  into  the  convents,  into  the  found- 
ling-hospitals, into  the  prisons  ;  everywhere  his  eagle  eye  pierces 
the  cloud  of  injustice,  ignorance,  superstition,  in  which  the 
poor  people  languish.  Everywhere  he  would  shed  the  clear 
light  of  reason,  of  mercy, — above^all,  of  freedom  !  No  wonder 
that  he  is  worshipped  by  men,  women,  and  children,  who  look 
upon  him  as  a  demi-god !  No  wonder  that  he  would  not 
exchange  his  red  shirt  for  the  crown  of  a  king ! 

"  I   am    glad,   dear   Heinrich,  that  you  approved  of  my 

refusal  of  the  commission  offered  me  in  my  father's  regiment 

until  I  had  fitted  myself  for  the  position.     We  are  drilled 

several  times  a  day  now,»and  shall  soon,  I  hope,  be  considered 

•  fit  for  work." 

Here  the  letter  breaks  off  abruptly ;  below  are  scrawled  in 
pencil  the  following  lines,  dated  a  day  later: 

"  A  small  force,  in  which,  thank  Heaven !  I  am  included, 
has  just  been  ordered  to  cross  with  Garibaldi  into  Northern 
Lombardy,  where  several  Austrian  detachments  have  already 
taken  up  their  position.  My  father,  of  course,  accompanies 
the  general.  The  rest  of  the  corps  remains  in  Sardinia. 
I  shall  not  have  time  to  post  this,  as  we  are  to  march  in  a  few 
minutes." 

Then  comes  another  postscript  in  pencil,  dated  two  days  later : 
"We  have  had  an  engagement  with  the  enemy,  and  have 


VIOLA.  187 

beaten  them  back.  Once  more  on  the  march :  shall  post  this 
at  the  next  town.  The  men  are  quite  wild  with  excitement 
and  joy.  Farewell !  farewell !" 

As  Viola  replaces  the  letter,  written  nearly  a  year  ago,  in 
her  pocket,  her  face  is  very  sad,  and  her  eyes  have  a  strange, 
absent  look,  which  Nfna  interprets  with  keen  sympathy.  She 
knows  well  that  during  all  these  months  no  other  letter  had 
reached  Vogogna,  and  that  the  war  had  continued  unabated. 
Two  months  ago  the  news  of  the  taking  of  Palermo  and  Mes- 
sina had  been  wafted  into  the  Anzasoa  Valley:  this  had  been 
in  April,  and  it  is  now  the  last  of  June.  What  may  have 
been  the  result  of  those  victories  to  the  majority  of  the  en- 
thusiastic, undisciplined  young  soldiers,  and  what  had  been  the 
fate  of  the  brave,  noble  lad  who  had  penned  that  last  cheery 
letter,  Viola  could  only  conjecture. 

Nina  slips  her  hand  into  that  of  her  friend  and  lays  her 
cheek  upon  it  caressingly. 

"  Read  me  another  letter,  Viola,"  she  whispers,  hoping  to 
divert  thereby  her  companion's  sad  thoughts.  "  Read  me  the 
one  which  tells  how  he  sailed  from  Genoa  for  Sorrento,  and 
saw  his  father  coming  along  the  coast  in  a  boat  to  meet  him. 
Ah,  1  think  that  is  the  loveliest  letter  of  all, — where  he  recog- 
nizes Tonio  from  his  resemblance  to  his  beautiful,  dead  mother! 
Oh,  Viola,  how  happy  they  must  have  been  !" 

"  Yes,  they  were  very  happy,"  acquiesces  Viola ;  "  but  I 
have  none  of  his  letters  with  me  except  his  last  one, — and 
this  I  know  by  heart,"  she  adds,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  How  wicked  that  little  corporal  was !"  begins  Nina, 
making  another  effort  after  a  pause,  during  which  Viola 
strokes  absently  her  smooth  brown  hair.  "  To  steal  the  boy 
and  hide  him  in  Paris  for  the  sake  of  the  money  his  father 
had  confided  to  his  care  !" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  as  much  terror  as  wickedness  which  in- 
duced him  to  desert  after  his  captain's  disaster,"  returns  Viola, 
always  more  inclined  to  shade  out  the  dark  lines  of  a  black 
deed  than  to  intensify  them.  "  It  may  have  been  a  cowardly 
panic.  You  see,  he  did  not  treat  the  child  unkindly, — and 
although  he  was  poor,  at  last,  he  never  sold  the  portrait,  whose 
setting  would  have  given  him  a  small  fortune,  Tonio  says." 

Her  voice  is  suddenly  checked  by  the  sound  of  approach- 


188  SOUCL 

ing  footsteps  crunching  the  brushwood  under-foot.  A  moment 
after,  the  dark  olive  face  and  glittering  eyes  of  Signore  Bar- 
besi  can  be  distinguished  between  the  foliage.  His  white 
teeth  gleam  in  a  forced  smile  as  he  exclaims,  gallantly, — 

"  It  is  here,  then,  that  the  queen  of  the  festa  is  hiding  her- 
self and  breaking  the  hearts  of  those  who  hoped  to  see  her 
at  the  dance  below?  Ah,  signorina,  how  can  you  be  so 
cruel  ?" 

Viola  has  risen  to  her  feet ;  her  delicate  face,  from  which 
every  shade  of  color  has  vanished,  looks  cut  from  marble, 
in  its  cold  purity.  Drawing  the  hunchback's  arm  through 
hers,  she  says,  quietly,  "  I  did  not  care  to  dance,  signore,  and 
— I  came  here  to  be  alone  with  Nina." 

She  is  about  to  turn  away  to  leave  the  nook,  when,  with  an 
agile  spring,  he  places  himself  directly  in  front  of  the  only 
exit,  while  a  heavy  scowl  chases  the  smile  from  his  thick,  sen- 
sual lips,  and  he  mutters,  with  a  menacing  glance,  "  Take 
care,  signorina !  love  may  turn  to  hate,  if  it  is  tried  too  far ; 
even  the  worm  will  turn  !  Beware  how  you  trifle  any  longer 
with  me !" 

Viola  feels  Nina's  arm  tremble  within  hers  as  these  words 
are  hissed  through  the  clenched  teeth  of  the  infuriated  man 
beside  her ;  bending  her  head  quickly,  she  whispers,  "  Fear 
nothing,  carisnma  ;  this  man  is  a  coward  !"  Then  straight- 
ening her  slight  figure, — grown,  oh,  so  frail  and  willowy  of 
late! — she  raises  her  calm  blue  eyes  to  his,  and  says,  coldly, 
"  I  have  never  trifled  with  you,  signore  ;  my  answer  was  plain 
and  decided  from  the  first ;  I  have  never  deceived  you.  Per- 
mit us  to  pass." 

"  Never  deceived  me !"  cries  the  Milanese,  ignoring  the 
latter  part  of  the  sentence.  "  But  what  of  the  old  woman, — 
the  grandmother  ? — she  has  not  deceived  me,  has  she  ?  For 
six  months  she  has  begged  me  to  be  patient ;  she  has  prom- 
ised that  I  should  gain  your  hand  at  last ;  she  has " 

"  She  has  done  nothing  with  my  consent,"  interrupts  Viola, 
cut  to  the  heart  by  her  grandmother's  duplicity.  "  It  has  been 
all  unknown  to  me,  and  I  am  not  responsible  for  the  promises 
of  others." 

"And  what  may  the  signorina  be  waiting  for?"  asks  Bar- 
besi,  with  a  sneer.  "  Does  she  expect  a  fairy  prince  to  stumble 
into  this  out-of-the-way  valley  in  search  of  her  charms  ?  You 


VIOLA.  189 

know  the  proverb,  'A  cacfer  va  eld  troppo  alto  sale  ;'*  take  care 
that  you  do  not  live  to  repent !" 

Viola's  head  droops  ;  she  offers  no  reply  ;  scarcely  have  the 
words  touched  her.  Her  silence  gives  him  courage. 

"  I  am  tired  of  this  fooling !"  he  says,  roughly ;  "  I  will 
stand  it  no  longer  !" 

She  raises  her  graceful  head  instantly,  and,  holding  it  erect 
like  a  lily  on  its  stalk,  she  answers,  proudly,  "You  are  right, 
signore.  I,  too,  am  weary  of  it.  Stand  aside,  if  you  please, 
and  allow  us  to  pass." 

But  the  man's  anger  has  reached  its  culminating-point : 
these  two  helpless  creatures  are  at  his  mercy  in  this  lonely 
spot ;  every  savage  instinct  of  his  nature  rebels  at  that  ex- 
ercise of  courteous  self-control  demanded  by  their  weakness. 

"You  shall  not  pass,  per  Dio!"  he  cries,  growing  scarlet 
with  rage.  "  I  shall  at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
why  you  detest  me !  Why  do  you  avoid  me  as  if  I  were  a  wild 
beast?  Per  Bacco  !  I !"  Here  he  draws  himself  up  and  ex- 
pands his  embroidered  shirt-bosom,  while  the  diamond  cross- 
bones  under  the  malachite  skull  of  his  scarf-pin  flash  out  their 
just  indignation.  "  Let  me  tell  you,  signorina,"  puffs  forth 
this  Apollo  of  the  counter,  who  suspects  that  his  claim  to 
manly  beauty  is  being  derided,  "  there  are  hundreds  of  girls 
in  my  native  city  who  would  envy  you  the  honor  I  offer  you, 
— handsome  girls,  rich  girls, — but,  ah,"  his  voice  sinking  once 
more  to  a  wheedling  persuasiveness  and  the  white  teeth  be- 
ginning to  show  again,  "  what  would  you  have  ?  I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  you.  I  ask  nothing  with  you.  I  have  even 
promised  to  set  up  the  old  people  for  life, — and  still  you  will 
not  smile  upon  me, — you " 

"  Would  you  have  me  sell  myself,"  she  breaks  in  here, 
with  a  sudden  flash  in  the  sweet  eyes,  "  that  my  grandmother 
and  my  father  might  have  a  better  home  ?  Would  you  be 
content  to  know  that  your  wife  married  you  for  the  silk  gowns 
you  could  give  her,  or  the  trinkets  she  would  not  accept? 
Ah,  signore,  a  marriage  without  love  would  be  as  hard  for  you 
to  bear  as  for  me !  Be  patient  a  little  while,  and  you  will 
find  another  who  will  gladly  accept  your  hand.  For  me — all 
that  i.s  over.  I  shall  never  marry."  Viola's  voice  has  grown 

*  Pride  goes  before  a  fall. 


190  SOVCI. 

very  low  and  sad  at  these  last  words,  but  the  proud  dignity  of 
her  manner  has  not  abated  one  whit. 

Never  has  she  looked  so  lovely,  the  Milanese  thinks,  never 
has  he  so  longed  to  carry  her  away  with  him,  as  at  this 
moment. 

"  I  cannot  give  you  up  !"  he  exclaims,  passionately,  the 
dark  face  flushing  purple,  the  black  eyes  glowing  like  coals  of 
fire.  "  For  six  months  I  have  thought  of  you  alone  !  dreamed 
of  you  !  determined  to  make  you  my  wife !  and  by  all  the 
saints  in  heaven  I  swear  I  shall  accomplish  it !" 

"  Let  us  pass,  signore  !"  Clear,  firm,  cold  as  ice  are  Viola's 
tones  now  ;  her  face  has  turned  once  more  to  stone. 

"  No  !' '  he  cries,  advancing  a  step  nearer  to  her  and  seizing 
her  arm  with  a  grasp  of  steel.  "  No  !  by  Santa  Maria  !  Not 
until  you  promise  to  be  mine  !  Come,  my  pretty  one,  we 
have  had  enough  coyness;  we  are  weary  of  it!'1  His  other 
arm  encircles  the  slight  waist ;  the  passion-distorted  face  bends 
itself  towards  hers,  grown  white  as  a  lily,  when,  swift  as 
a  lightning-flash,  a  short,  sharp-pointed  knife  gleams  an  in- 
stant in  Nina's  uplifted  hand,  then  buries  itself  to  the  handle 
through  the  upper  part  of  the  man's  arm. 

Bravo,  little  Nina !  your  mushroom-cutter  has  done  faithful 
work  in  its  time,  but  never  braver  than  it  has  done  to-day  ! 

Half  blinded  by  the  blood  which  spurts  up  into  his  livid 
face,  half  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  attack,  Barbesi 
reels  backward  a  few  paces,  and  Nina,  throwing  her  intrepid 
arm  about  the  almost-fainting  Viola,  drags  her  down  tke  path 
thus  freed,  never  stopping  to  take  breath  until  they  have 
reached  safely  the  open  highway. 

Here  they  encounter  two  or  three  stragglers  from  the  dance, 
whom  Nina  sends  to  the  aid  of  the  wounded  man  without 
pausing  to  give  the  explanation  of  the  injury  which  they,  awe- 
stricken,  demand. 

It  is  not  until  they  have  gained  the  cottage-porch  that 
Viola's  horror  and  dismay  have  given  place  to  gratitude  and 
admiration  of  the  child  who  had  saved  her  from  the  pollution 
which  had  threatened  her. 

"  Nina,  what  can  I  say  to  thee,  carissima  ?  Thou  hast  saved 
me  from  a  bitter  shame  !  I  shall  never  forget  it,  Nina,  never  !" 
And  she  covers  with  kisses  the  long,  brown  face,  down  which 
big  tears  are  now  rolling:. 


VIOLA.  191 

"  I  could  not  help  it !"  she  cries,  while  the  poor  deformed 
shoulders  are  shaken  with  deep  sobs.  "  Oh,  Viola,  I  co«W 
not  see  him  touch  you, — he  looked  as  if  he  had  gone  mad, 
and  you — you  seemed  as  if  you  were  dying, — so  pale,  so  pale !" 

"  And  I  feared  that  you  were  terrified,  you  brave  little  girl  1" 
whispers  Viola,  tenderly. 

"  So  I  was  frightened  !"  returns  the  child',  shuddering. 
"  When  he  hissed  through  his  teeth  and  smiled  so  horribly  ! 
Oh,  yes,  I  was  afraid  of  him,  until  he  took  you  by  the  arm ; 
— then  I  hated  him,  and  all  at  once  my  hand  fell  upon  my 
knife,  and  I  would  have  killed  him  if  I  could !  Oh,  it  was 
wicked,  Viola  !  The  saints  will  never  forgive  me  !"  And  she 
sobs  again. 

"  Nina,  you  hurt  me  !  Do  not  cry  !  I  would  rather  have 
died  than  have  had  that  man  touch  me  !  Nina,  do  you  hear  ? 
I  owe  you  more  than  my  life  !"  Then,  with  soft  caresses,  she 
soothes  the  excited  child  until  Heinrich  returns,  when  Viola, 
after  telling  him  the  story,  confides  her  friend  to  his  charge 
to  be  taken  home. 

Heinrich  makes  no  observation  upon  the  heroic  act  of  the 
little  girl,  but  he  plays  his  sweetest  airs  for  her  as  they  saunter 
slowly  through  the  twilight,  and  when  he  leaves  her  at  the 
door  of  her  uncle's  abode  he  stoops,  and,  kissing  her  gently  on 
both  cheeks,  lays  his  long,  thin  hand  upon  her  head  as  if  in 
silent  blessing. 

Excepting  Viola's,  these  are  the  only  kisses  which  have 
ever  fallen  upon  that  toil-worn  face.  Nina  looks  at  herself 
anxiously  in  the  bit  of  broken  mirror  fastened  against  her 
bedroom  wall,  as  though  she  expects  to  find  her  homeliness 
suddenly  transfigured  through  the  influence  of  those  unwonted 
caresses. 


192  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"THERE  is  NO  BLOOD  UPON  THESE  HANDS  OF  MINE." 

"There  is  no  blood  upon  these  hands  of  mine: 
Why  do  they  feel  so  like  a  murderer's  ?" — LORD  LYTTOX. 

"  Improve  the  people  !  Well,  I  saw  a  peasant  broken  on  the  wheel 
yesterday,  for  stabbing  an  abbot — a  young  man  of  one  of  our  best 
families — who  had  kindly  improved  the  condition  of  the  brute's  sister !" 

THREE  days  later  all  Vogogna  is  in  consternation,  aided  and 
abetted  by  that  delicious  undercurrent  of  pleasurable  excite- 
ment with  which  the  discovery  of  a  real  crime  in  our  imme- 
diate vicinity  inspires  the  heart  of  man.  The  Milanese,  who, 
in  consequence  of  approaching  death,  has  acquired  the  dignity 
of  "  his  Eccellenza"  lies  withering  under  a  fever,  caused  by 
his  wound,  in  his  bedroom  at  the  Corona. 

There  is  but  one  opinion  among  the  excited  villagers,  gath- 
ered in  open-mouthed  conclave  about  the  inn  precincts, — that 
the  fever  which  had  set  in  immediately  was  the  result  of  poison 
adhering  to  the  knife  which  had  done  the  deadly  deed.  For 
who  could  tell  a  toadstool  from  a  mushroom  in  the  gray  of 
early  morning  or  the  dusk  of  evening,  when  alone  Nina 
was  permitted  to  leave  her  spinning-wheel?  and  everybody 
kne"w  what  a  rank  poison  lurked  in  the  toadstool.  Yes,  there 
is  no  hope ;  should  his  Eccellenza  not  die  of  the  wound,  he 
will  undoubtedly  perish  from  the  poison,  which  has  got  into 
his  blood  !  Has  he  not  been  raving  for  the  last  three  nights, 
and  has  he  not  (in  a  lucid  interval,  let  us  hope)  received  ex- 
treme unction  at  the  hands  of  their  own  little  priest  ?  How 
can  he  live  after  that  ? 

And  when  he  dies — what  will  become  of  the  murderess  ? 
How  they  roll  out  this  word  in  their  soft  vowels !  how  they 
gloat  over  the  fact  that  at  last  kind  fortune  has  sent  them  a 
tidbit  of  horrible  scandal  to  dilate  upon  whilst  they  consume 
endless  flasks  of  sour  red  wine  in  its  discussion  I 


VIOLA.  193 

The  ends  of  justice  should  not  be  defeated  because  the 
creature  is  almost  a  child  and  a  cripple.  Has  not  her  uncle, 
in  anticipation  of  the  end,  shut  her  up  in  her  attic  on  a  scanty 
diet? 

She  is  not  popular,  the  silent,  wan-faced  hunchback,  in  her 
native  village.  Many  of  her  uncle's  peccadilloe^have  been  laid 
to  her  charge ;  and  she  had  sometimes  been  called  witch,  and 
stoned,  as  she  passed  humbly  the  door-swarmed  cottages  of  her 
kind. 

I  fear,  had  justice  called  a  jury  from  among  those  Vogognese, 
Nina  would  assuredly  have  fallen  a  victim,  in  case  of  this  man's 
death,  to  the  old  Jewish  law  which  exacted  "a  life  for  a  life." 
The  gentle  "  quality  of  mercy"  is  not  always  found  in  the 

bosoms  of  the  honest  tillers  of  the  soil. 

*****  *  * 

In  her  little  room,  barred  against  all  intruders.  Viola  has 
taken  refuge,  like  an  animal  at  bay.  She  has  fled  there,  half 
wild,  wholly  bewildered,  from  a  conflict  which  has  raged  since 
noon  between  her  grandmother  and  herself.  She  has  sunk 
exhausted,  but  not  conquered,  upon  the  floor,  trying  to  stifle 
her  sobs  in  the  pillow  of  her  bed,  as  she  prays  for  strength  to 
resist  the  persecution  which  is  becoming  intolerable,  now  that 
lthe  sympathy  of  everybody  is  enlisted  for  the  "unfortunate 
signore." 

That  morning  had  been  spent  by  the  Frau  at  the  bedside 
of  the  Milanese ;  the  little  priest  had  come  to  her  with  a  mes- 
sage from  the  supposed-dying  man, — a  request  that  she  would 
come  to  him  at  once.  Although  a  heretic,  the  Frau  would  be 
Christian  enough,  the  holy  man  hoped,  to  grant  the  prayer,  of 
one  who  had  been  shriven  of  his  sins  and  would  soon  receive 
the  last  consolations  of  the  Church.  The  old  German  woman's 
shrewd  eyes,  however,  soon  discovered  that  the  signore  was  not 
in  urticulo  mortis,  and,  indeed,  was  sufficiently  alive  to  wax 
vindictive  whenever  his  speech  reverted  to  the  unfortunate 
hunchback,  whom  he  menaced  with  all  the  terrors  of  the  law. 
It  was  only  when  the  Frau  insinuated  that  Liebchen  would 
resent  the  punishment  of  her  little  friend  that  Barbesi  showed 
signs  of  rdcntiriir.  alt  In  nigh  it  apparently  cost  him  a  pang  to 
relinquish  the  idea  of  having  her  imprisoned  for  the  assault, 
which  had  been  as  inopportune  as  violent. 

They  had  talked  long,  and  without  undue  reticence  on  either 
i  17 


194  SOVCI. 

side,  and  when  the  Frau  bade  him  farewell  in  her  Teutonic- 
Italian,  they  had  exchanged  a  glance  of  intelligence  which 
needed  no  interpretation  by  speech.  Carefully  folded  away  in 
her  pocket  lay  a  paper,  signed  by  the  Milanese,  settling  a 
certain  sum  of  money  upon  Viola  under  certain  plainly-ex- 
pressed conditions. 

Walking  slowly  home  under  the  August  sun,  which  op- 
pressed the  unwieldy  old  body  more  than  she  was  conscious  of, 
so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  thoughts,  the  Frau  had  conjured 
,up  a  pathetic  picture  of  a  fine-looking  youth  stretched  upon 
perhaps  a  dying  bed,  entreating  only  the  inexpressible  joy  of 
being  united  to  the  loved  object  for  whose  sake  he  is  now 
suffering ! 

Such  magnanimity,  such  generosity,  must  melt  a  heart  of 
stone !  The  Frau  had  wiped  her  hot  face  and  struggled  on  ; 
at  last  she  had  reached  the  cottage,  and  Liebchen,  white  and 
trembling,  had  come  forth  to  meet  her,  asking,  anxiously,  "  Is 
it  true,  what  they  say,  that  he  is  dying?  Ach,  lieber  Gott ! 
can  this  terrible  thing  come  upon  me  after  all  that  I  have 
suffered  ?" 

Her  grandmother  had  thought  it  best  to  hobble  in  and 
take  possession  of  her  great-chair  in  an  ominous  silence ;  then 
she  had  slowly  wiped  her  face  again  and  untied  the  strings  of 
her  bonnet. 

Viola,  standing  patiently  before  her,  had  been  impressed  by 
this  gloomy  silence,  and  almost  dreaded  to  see  the  old  woman 
open  her  tight-pressed  lips. 

"  I  never  thought,  Liebchen,  to  see  you  live  to  have  mur- 
der on  your  soul.  Yes,  murder;  for  although  your  hand  did 
not  strike  the  blow,  it  was  through  your  wicked  obstinacy  and 
cruelty  that  it  was  struck." 

"Is  he  dying?"  Viola  had  asked  then,  in  a  hard,  changed 
voice. 

The  Frau's  eyes  had  sought  the  floor.  "  He  is,"  she  had 
said.  "  And  he  is  dying  as  much  of  a  broken  heart  as  of  the 
cruel  wound  that  wicked  girl  gave  him.  He  lies  there,  pale 
and  weak  as  a  child.  So  handsome  too.  Achja!  he  is  a  fine 
man,  ein  schoner  mnnn  !  You  would  pity  him,  could  you  see 
him  now,  Liebchen." 

Only  a  low,  gasping  sigh  had  answered  this. 

"  And  what,  think  you,  has  this  noble  man  done  ?    Feeling 


VIOLA.  195 

himself  to  be  dying,  he  has  made  a  will — see,  I  have  it" 
(drawing  the  folded  paper  from  her  pocket  and  immediately 
replacing  it) — "  in  which  he  has  left  everything  he  possesses  to 

y°u-" . 

"  And  you  consented  to  this  ?  You  would  have  me  accept 
this?"  had  cried  Viola,  in  wild  excitement. 

"  But  yes  ;  I  have  consented  to  it,  and  so  will  you.  As  his 
wife  are  you  not  entitled  to  it?" 

"  I  am  not  his  wife !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  what 
have  you  done  ?"  she  had  wailed  forth. 

';  I  have  promised  a  dying  man  that  you  would  not  oppose 
a  request  made  upon  his  death-bed.  Should  he  live  through- 
out the  night  the  priest  will  unite  you  to  him  to-morrow 
morning,  and  his  last  hours  will  be  happy  !" 

Without  a  quaver  in  the  thick  guttural  voice  the  Frau  had 
pronounced  these  words,  which  had  fallen  upon  Viola's  ears 
like  the  knell  of  departing  hope. 

One  frantic  effort  the  girl  had  made  to  resist  the  implac- 
able will  which  had  never  before  been  disputed  during  her 
lifetime  by  human  being.  u  You  have  promised  what  cannot 
be !  Do  you  think  I  would  buy  all  the  wealth  of  the  world 
by  such  a  contemptible  act  as  this  ?  Oh,  have  pity !  have 
pity !" 

"  Pity !  Have  you  any  pity  for  him  ?  Have  you  any  for 
the  girl  you  profess  to  care  so  much  for,  and  who,  should  you 
refuse  his  last  request,  will  be  delivered  up  to  the  law, — and 
rightly  too  !  When  she  is  rotting  in  prison, — for  the  poor  are 
apt  to  be  forgotten  when  they  are  once  behind  bars, — when  he 
is  dead  and  buried,  and  we — your  father  and  I — are  wander- 
ing over  the  earth  homeless  beggars  (for  your  lady-hands  can 
never  support  us),  what  then  shall  be  your  pity  and  your 
remorse  ?" 

At  this  moment  Heinrich  had  entered  noiselessly,  and  was 
surveying  with  uncomprehending  eyes  the  sad  scene.  In- 
stantly Viola  turned  towards  him  her  white,  tearless  face. 
"  Father/ thou  wilt  save  thy  Liebchen !  Oh,  pray  her  to 
have  mercy  upon  me  !" 

Startled  into  a  quicker  perception  than  usual,  the  old  man 
had  taken  in  the  situation,  and  had  murmured,  while  he 
gently  stroked  Viola's  hair  with  his  tremulous  fingers,  "  It  is 
very  sad  that  ho  should  die,  so  young  and  strong  as  he  looked ; 


196  SOUCL 

but  you  were  right,  mem  Liebchen,  not  to  promise  to  marry 
him, — you  were  right !" 

"•ffeinrich  /"  Only  this  one  word  from  the  Frau,  but  in  it 
such  a  volume  of  repressed  wrath  and  contempt.  4 

"  Well,  well !"  had  sighed  her  son,  "  it  is  all  the  same 
now  ;  he  is  dying,  they  say,  and  it  is  no  use  to  scold  her  any 
more." 

Then  Viola  had  lifted  her  streaming  eyes  upwards,  clasping 
her  thin  hands  together,  and  crying  out  in  her  anguish,  "  0 
my  love  !  my  love  !  Come  to  me  !  Save  me,  save  me  !"  as 
she  stumbled  blindly  up  the  staircase  to  her  little  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

ON   THE   WING. 

"  The  night  is  very  dark  and  very  lonely  : 
And  as  dark,  and  all  as  lonely,  is  my  heart: 
And  the  sorrow  that  is  in  it  night  knows  only : 
For  the  dawn  breaks,  and  my  heart  breaks.     Far  apart 
From  my  old  self  seems  my  new  self.     And  my  mother 
And  my  sister  are  in  heaven,  so  they  say : 
And  the  dear  one,  dearer  yet  than  any  other, 
Is  far,  far  away." — OWEN  MEREDITH. 

DUSK  has  fallen,  when  a  slender  figure,  dressed  simply  in  a 
dark  stuff  gown  and  a  plain  bonnet,  over  which  is  drawn  closely 
a  thick  double  veil,  steps  into  the  little  station-office,  and,  offer- 
ing a  piece  of  gold,  demands  two  places  in  the  diligence  which 
is  to  start  at  four  o'clock  the  next  morning.  Without  hesita- 
tion the  tickets  are  handed  to  her,  and  a  moment  later  she  is 
flying  along  the  road,  keeping  well  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
until  the  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  is  reached. 

A  pebble  thrown  against  the  wooden  shutter — for  glass 
there  is  none — is  answered  by  the  appearance  at  the  aperture 
of  a  thin,  woe-bcgone,  brown  face,  into  which  flashes  an  in- 
stantaneous gleam  of  joy. 

"Viola,  is  it  you?"  she  whispers,  half  fearfully,  her  face 


VIOLA.  197 

growing  troubled  again  as  the  change  in  her  friend's  costume 
strikes  her.  "  Is  it  you — or — a  spirit?"  she  falters. 

"  It  is  I,  Nina.     Are  you  alone  ?     Don't  speak  loud  !" 

"  Yes.  He  has  brought  me  my  supper,  and  locked  me  up 
again  and  gone  out.  Oh,  Viola,  is  the  man  dead  yet?"  her 
voice  growing  strangely  hollow,  and  an  expression  of  wild  fear 
distorting  the  poor  face. 

"  No,  Nina,  he  is  not  dead  ;  and  if  he  were,  you  should  not 
suffer  for  it!  Now. listen.  Can  you  break  open  the  door  of 
your  garret?  Try." 

The  girl  shakes  her  head  mournfully.  "  I  have  tried  often  ; 
it  has  an  iron  bolt ;  I  cannot  stir  it !" 

"  Is  there  a  bed  in  the  room?"  asks  Viola. 

"  Yes;  a  bundle  of  straw  and  a  sheet  and  coverlet." 

"  Good !  Tear  the  sheet  in  halves  and  knot  them  firmly 
together.  Do  the  same  with  the  coverlet." 

"  It  is  done !"  cries  Nina,  a  moment  later,  having  seized  the 
idea  with  joyful  eagerness. 

"  Now  pass  one  end  through  that  beam  over  your  head — so. 
Now  throw  both  ends  out  of  the  window  to  me,"  directs  her 
rescuer,  glancing  anxiously  up  and  down  the  road,  every  sense 
on  the  alert,  fearing  lest  some  passer-by  might  thwart  her 
merciful  undertaking.  "  Quickly  »now,  clamber  down  !"  she 
urges,  trying  with  all  her  might  the  strength  of  their  improvised 
rope.  "  There  is  no  danger ;  the  distance  is  nothing.  Gently  ; 
not  so  fast.  Ah,  here  you  are  !"  And  she  clasps  the  emaci- 
ated child,  who  has  been  wellnigh  starved  during  these  past 
three  days,  in  her  arms  with  tender  pity. 

Away  they  speed,  dragging  with  them  the  knotted  sheet, 
which  they  safely  inter  under  the  decaying  leaves  in  a  hollow 
tree-trunk  lest  the  child's  flight  should  be  discovered  betimes, 
scarcely  daring  to  breathe  until  they  reach  the  cottage,  where 
a  light  burning  dimly  in  the  Frau's  chamber  warns  them  that 
she  is  still  awake. 

Softly  they  creep  up  the  staircase,  past  that  dreaded  door, 
and  reach  Viola's  own  little  bedroom  in  safety. 

"  Ah,  Viola,"  whispers  the  hunchback,  gazing  at  her  with 
rapt  adoration,  "  you  are  like  an  angel !  Your  face  is  bright 
like  the  angel  with  the  lily,  in  the  picture  over  the  altar." 

"  Hush,  Nina  !"  She  closes  her  lips  with  a  kiss.  "  I  am  a 
very  hungry  angel  just  now.  See ;  here  is  a  great  dish  of 

17* 


198  SOUCL 

polenta  and  milk  my  dear  father  brought  to  me  at  supper- 
time.  I  could  not  eat  it  then,  but  I  think  we  might  manage 
it  together."  And  she  puts  the  spoon  in  Nina's  hand,  and 
watches  her  with  glistening  eyes  as  she  hungrily  devours  a 
portion  of  it. 

"  Go  on,  eat  it  all !"  she  entreats,  as  the  child  sets  down 
the  dish,  ashamed  of  her  voracity.  "  Do  eat  it  all,  Nina ; 
you  need  nourishment  so  sadly,  and  I  have  something  else  in 
this  basket,  which  I  had  intended  to  carry  to  Pepita's  poor 
old  grandmother  this  morning.  Look  !  here  is  a  can  of  soup 
and  some  German  porridge.  You  must  have  some  of  this ; 
it  is  good." 

The  girls  eat  their  supper  by  the  faint  glimmer  of  a  taper, 
while,  in  whispers,  Viola  details  her  plans  to  Nina's  wondering 
delight.  Afterwards  they  cautiously  open  and  unpack  a  port- 
manteau which  has  always  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  little 
room,  and  in  which  is  carefully  laid  away,  amid  sprigs  of  lav- 
ender and  sweet  marjoram,  every  relic  of  the  dear  by-gone 
days  of  her  life  in  the  villa  of  the  Contessa.  Here  are  neatly- 
made  dresses  of  all  fabrics,  from  soft  wool  to  rich  silk,  co- 
quetries in  millinery,  neck -ties,  ribbons,  kid  gloves  and  delicate 
boots,  fine  stockings  and  dainty  laces, — the  thousand  trifles 
which  mark  the  distinction  of  class; — the  poetical  useless  things 
which  render  the  prosaic  necessity  of  our  outward  covering  a 
pleasure  as  well  as  an  art. 

With  lingering  touch  Viola  refolds  and  replaces  all,  save 
the  most  useful  articles,  in  their  respective  compartments,  re- 
calling vividly  many  an  association  connected  with  each  and 
all  of  them  ;  associations  which  she  dares  not  dwell  upon  just 
now. 

This  pretty  blue  silk  had  been  made  for  Maddalena's  birth- 
day fete ;  that  sweet  white-sprigged  muslin  she  had  worn  at  a 
child's  party  in  Florence  ;  this  little  fanciful  hat  had  been 
sent  from  Paris  to  Maddalena,  and,  suiting  ill  her  Irune  com- 
plexion, had  been  bestowed  upon  Viola.  Here  in  its  case  lies 
the  little  watch  the  Contessa  gave  her,  and  the  turquoise  ring 
which  the  spoiled  heiress  had  embalmed  with  her  tears  at 
parting. 

"  We  cannot  take  them  all,"  she  whispers  to  the  wonder- 
stricken  Nina,  who  touches  the  dainty  silks  with  the  tips  of 
her  brown  fingers,  as  though  she  would  convince  herself  they 


VIOLA.  199 

are  tangible  realities.  "  Here  is  a  suit  small  enough  for  you, 
caris&ima ;  put  it  on  as  quickly  as  you  can  ;  and  here  is  a 
modest  little  hat  which  will  be  the  very  thing  for  you,  and  a 
veil  on  it  too,  for  we  must  not  be  recognized,  Nina." 

While  the  hunchback  is  rapidly  investing  herself  with  the 
borrowed  plumes,  Viola  fills  a  travelling-bag  with  such  articles 
as  might  be  most  useful,  making  up  a  small  bundle  of  all  that 
cannot  be  crammed  into  the  bag.  From  a  tortoise-shell  box 
she  takes  a  few  trinkets  of  some  value,  and  several  gold  pieces, 
which  had  been  given  to  her  by  her  kind  friends.  These  she 
makes  into  a  parcel  and  places  in  her  bosom, — only  one  of 
them  she  first  raises  to  her  lips  and  kisses  it  before  she  hides 
it  away.  It  is  the  ugliest  and  least  valuable  of  all, — a  brooch 
of  immense  proportions,  composed  of  cairngorm-pebbles,  set 
in  silver,  presented  to  her  on  her  birthday  by  Miss  Crawford. 

Viola  has  confided  her  plans  to  Nina,  and  has  been  sur- 
prised by  the  quick  intelligence  with  which  she  comprehends 
and  aids  her. 

A  letter  from  Miss  Crawford,  received  a  week  previous,  de- 
cided the  direction  of  their  flight.  She  was  in  Paris,  having 
just  arrived  there  in  the  family  of  an  English  lady,  who  had 
thought  best  to  bring  her  daughters  abroad  to  acquire  a  cor- 
rect accent  in  the  various  tongues  of  which  they  had  a  super- 
ficial knowledge.  The  governess  had  not  found  her  sisters  as 
grateful  for  the  privilege  of  her  society  as  Viola  had  predicted, 
or  as  they  had  appeared  to  be  when  half  her  salary  was  an- 
nually divided  between  them,  and  she  had  soon  been  forced 
to  seek  another  situation. 

Carefully  Viola  copies  the  address  of  the  hotel  in  Paris, 
where  she  is  sure  of  finding  one  familiar  face  to  cheer  and  ad- 
vise her  on  her  future  course  ;  this  she  secures  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  her  travelling-bag  with  her  purse,  in  which  glisten 
a  couple  of  golden  sovereigns,  placed  there,  unknown  to  her, 
by  the  kind  hand  which  would  soon  clasp  hers.  And  then 
the  girls  lie  down,  dressed  as  they  are,  upon  the  tiny  bed, 
to  await  the  dawn  of  that  morning  which  shall  bring  them 
liberty. 

Darkness  still  veils  the  face  of  day,  when  Viola,  rising 
softly,  removes  her  shoes  and  steals  like  a  shadow  across  the 
passage  to  the  door  of  Heinrich's  room.  It  is  partly  ajar,  and 
as  she  draws  near  the  bed,  upon  which  he  has  thrown  himself 


200  SOUCI. 

without  undressing,  his  attitude  of  weary  grief  touches  her 
heart.  One  thin  arm  is  lying  across  the  pale,  withered  face ; 
the  other  is  stretched  over  his  violin,  against  which  his  cheek 
is  resting.  As  she  gazes  upon  him,  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  twitch  nervously,  as  though  fingering  his  bow,  and  the 
lips  murmur  anxiously,  fearfully,  "  Liebchen  !  Liebchen !" 

Stooping  over  him,  she  kisses  lightly  the  fair  hair  streaming 
over  the  pillow, — the  worn  coat-sleeve, — not  daring  to  do  more, 
— and  slips  under  the  strings  of  his  instrument  the  little  letter 
in  which  she  has  bidden  him  farewell. 

"  Good-by,  dear  father ;  most  precious  thou  hast  ever  been 
to  me,  and  ever  shalt  be  in  my  heart,"  she  had  written.  "  Do 
not  grieve  when  thou  shalt  awake  and  find  thy  Liebchen  has 
gone,  to  escape  from  a  fate  worse  than  death.  Thou  wilt  be 
glad,  my  beloved,  to  know  that  I  am  safe ;  that  I  have  been 
able  to  get  away  before  they  break  my  heart.  Thou  wilt  miss 
me,  but  thou  wilt  not  regret  my  going,  for  thou  hast  never 
had  a  selfish  thought ! 

"TFear  nothing  for  me,  dear  father, — Nina  accompanies  me. 
I  have  money ;  I  go  to  Paris — to  Miss  Crawford.  She  will 
help  me  to  gain  a  livelihood,  and  when  I  can  do  so,  I  shall 
come  for  you,  and  take  you  away  with  me. 

"Fear  nothing  from  anyone!  Thou  shalt  never  be  cast 
out  upon  the  world.  Grandmother  has  money,  and  I  shall  send 
you  more.  Courage,  my  father  ! 

"  I  would  fain  hear  our  love-song  once  more,  dear  father, 
before  I  go  ;  but  I  shall  hear  it  again, — trust  me, — I  shall  hear 
it  soon  again. 

"  May  all  the  angels  guard  thee,  my  beloved  !  prays  thy 

"  LIEBCHEN." 

One  more  look,  through  fast-dropping  tears,  at  the  calm, 
still  face,  faintly  defined  by  the  glimmering  starlight,  and 
then  Viola  creeps  back,  and,  awakening  the  sleeping  Nina, 
they  prepare  for  their  flight. 

When  the  post-horn  rings  out  its  merry  reveille  to  the 
echoes  half  an  hour  "later,  the  old  Frau,  slumbering  under  a 
mountain  of  eider-down,  little  dreams  that  her  trapped  bird  is 
already  on  the  wing. 


BOOK  IV. 

LAURELS. 

•CHAPTER  I. 
"ARE  WE  so  SOON  FORGOT?" 

Rip  Van  Winkle. 

"Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty, 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 
If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 
When  I  am  but  twenty-five?" 

LTSTER  RAWDON,  somewhat  bronzed  and  weather-beaten, 
looking  older  and  graver  than  when  we  saw  him  last,  is  saun- 
tering idly  along  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  arm-in-arm  with  a  chum 
of  earlier  days,  Noyes  Jamieson.  Bored  equally  by  the  seduc- 
tions of  fair,  beguiling  Lutetia  as  by  the  hardships  and  perils 
of  Western  America  or  the  hair-breadth  'scapes  of  Eastern 
jungles,  feeling  that  there  is  a  lack  of  savor  in  life  generally, 
Lyster  has  reached  that  limit  of  ennui  when  a  man  either 
makes  a  mighty  effort  to  throw  off  the  inertia  of  which  he  is 
growing  ashamed  or  goes  out  and  hangs  himself. 

Satan  (in  the  form  of  cherub-faced  Jamieson,  whom  he  En- 
countered accidentally  at  breakfast),  with  the  ready  suggest- 
iveness  ascribed  to  that  potentate  under  given  conditions, 
presents  an  alternative. 

"  Have  you  seen  her,  Rawdon  ?"  he  lisps,  in  the  dainty 
drawl  pfculiar  to  him. 

"  Can't  say,  dear  boy ;  I  have  seen  so  many  people.  Who 
is  she?"  Not  the  faintest  accent  of  interest  or  curiosity  in 
his  voice. 

Jamieson  glances  at  him  a  little  indignantly.  "  Oh,  come, 
now,  you  don't  pretend  to  say  that  you  did  not  hear  those 
fellows  raving  about  her  at  the  club  a  moment  ago  ?  That 
i*  201 


202  SOUCI. 

sang-froid  you  have  picked  up,  Lyster,  is  amazing  good  form 
in  such  a  young  one,  I  admit,  but  you  must  have  grown  stone 
deaf  in  your  wanderings,  not  to  have  heard  those  wranglers !" 

"  Ah !  Was  it  the  Circe  with  the  throat  of  a  million 
thrushes, — the  singer  they  called  '  Le  Rossignol'  ?  " 

"  Precisely ;  the  new  '  prima'  who  has  sung  the  Vienna 
world  mad,  and  who  is  now  about  to  electrify  the  Parisians. 
You  are  in  luck,  dear  old  boy ;  you  have  returned  to  civili- 
zation in  time  to  assist  at  her  debut.  She  sings  for  the  first 
time  here  on  Friday." 

Lyster  makes  no  reply.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  hears  a 
word  of  his  friend's  congratulation.  His  face  has  resumed  its 
moody  expression :  his  thoughts  have  strayed  far  from  the 
brilliant  melange  of  sights  and  sounds  and  scents  which  make 
up  that  p'lt-pourri  of  sensation — Paris.  He  is,  perhaps,  riding 
uncomfortably,  camel-mounted,  across  the  desert,  or  watching 
the  sun  set  on  the  ruins  of  the  Parthenon,  wondering  anew  at 
the  myriad  tints  into  which  each  glowing  color  subdivides  it- 
self in  these  gorgeous-skied  regions,  when  Jamieson's  tra.ina.nte 
voice  breaks  into  his  revery  with  just  a  touch  of  annoyance  in 
its  silvery  cadence. 

"What  are  you  mooning  about,  Lyster?  There  is  Lady 
Gordon- Villiers  bowing  and  smiling  at  you,  and  you  look  as 
glum  as  an  Egyptian  mummy.  Really,  you  are  too  bad.  This 
sort  of  thing  may  go  down  in  the  East,  but  one  must  be  a 
Roman  in  Rome,  dear  boy " 

"  Was  it — the  singer?"  inquires  Rawdon, abstractedly, raising 
his  hat  as  a  dashing  equipage  shoots  past.  Then,  as  Jamieson 
laughingly  shakes  his  head,  he  adds,  a  little  apologetically, 
''  You  forget,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  have  been  knocking 
about  the  antipodes  for  a  couple  of  years.  I  only  returned 
yesterday.  Why,  I  haven't  got  the  dust  out  of  my  eyes  or 
the  roar  of  the  sea  out  of  my  ears  yet." 

"  Well,  get  your  eyes  and  ears  in  good  working  order,  Lys- 
ter, as  soon  as  possible,  for  there  is  a  treat  in  store  for  them. 
You  must  hear  Souci !"  pursues  Jamieson,  returning  to  the 
all-absorbing  topic. 

"  Souci?  A  lugubrious  name  !"  Rawdon  makes  an  effort 
to  appear  interested.  "  Is  she  handsome  ?" 

"  No  ;  too  white,  too  cold  ;  but  she  moves  like  an  empress. 
She  reminds  me  of  a  picture  of  Zenobia  we  have  down  at 


LA  URELS.  203 

Broadacres  ;  do  you  remember  it?     Just  such  a  stag-like  way 
of  carrying  her  head." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  I  see  her  before  me.  You  need  not  describe 
her,  Jamie.  Half  a  foot  above  the  medium  height ;  swarthy  ; 
coarse  black  hair  iu  abundance;  piercing  black  eyes;  high 
cheek-bones ;  hands  and  feet  to  match.  A  cross  between  the 
Amazon  and  the  Zingara  in  style,  conversation,  and — exac- 
tions !"  Rawdon  stops,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Astounding  !"  bursts  forth  Jamieson.  "  You  have  drawn 
her  trait  pour  trait !  You  must  have  met  her  somewhere — at 
the  antipodes !" 

"  Thank  Heaven,  no !  Women  are  insupportable  when  they 
are  not  pmall-boned,  soft-skinned,  low-voiced.  We  are  not 
living  in  the  age  of  Titans,  when  length  of  limb  measured  out 
beauty  by  the  yard.  I  feel  relieved,  Jamie;  I  half  fancied 
from  your  rhapsodies  that  you  were  epris." 

"  Too  old  for  that.  Rawdon,"  returns  the  veteran  of  a 
dozen  seasons,  a  slight  flush  deepening  in  the  smooth,  whisker- 
li --  cheek,  curved  and  tinted  like  a  girl's;  "but  the  men  are 
all  half  mad  about  her.  She's  all  that  she's  painted,  I  assure 
you." 

"  Then  that  must  be  a  good  deal ;  they  generally  are.  What 
are  the  'on  dits  about  her?"  Rawdon  continues,  stifling  a 
yawn.  "  What  is  she, — saint,  martyr,  or  Uonrief" 

"  Neither,"  replies  Jamieson,  curtly.  "  Where  she  came 
from,  who  she  is,  are  mysteries ;  but  she  is  a  lady — by  birth, 
cultivation, — or — the  grace  of  God  !" 

"And  has  genuine  talent?  You  have  heard  her?"  asks 
Kawdon,  becoming  slightly  amused  at  this  still  surviving 
ardor  in  his  senior  by  ten  years. 

"  Yes ;  in  Vienna.  The  ovation  she  received  there  was  no 
mean  triumph  in  that  city  of  music-lovers.  Talent !  that 
sounds  a  tame  word  applied  to  a  gift  which  lifts  you  out  of 
yourself  and  sets  you  down  on  the  threshold  of  another 
world  !"  Then,  half  ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm,  he  adds,  in 
his  laziest  drawl,  "They  say  she  belongs  to  an  illustrious 
Italian  family,  and  was  abducted  from  her  convent  by  the 
man  who  is  bringing  her  out  on  the  stage.  Others  declare 
her  to  be  a  Castilian  ;  that  she  was  picked  up  by  a  band  of 
strolling  players  in  the  streets  of  Seville  and  brought  to  Paris 
when  ijuitc  a  child  ;  afterwards  rescued  by  this  musical  con- 


204  SOUCL 

noisseur,  Monsieur  Delacroix.  Others  again  believe  her  to  be 
a  Russian  (she  is  of  that  Norse  type).  She  has  been  divorced 
from  one  or  two  husbands ;  has  murdered  a  couple  of  her 
lovers  ;  has  had  several  duels  fought  about  her ;  has  the  royal 
blood  of  more  than  one  nation  in  her  veins ;  is  despised  at 
court;  and  has  given  the  name  to  a  new  coiffure.  Heaven 
only  knows  all  that  has  been  said  about  her !  Here  we 
are  at  the  very  doors  of  the  Lyrique,  and,"  drawing  forth  his 
watch,  "  at  the  very  hour  of  rehearsal !  Come,  Lyster,  I  am 
privileged,  and  attend  these  things  daily.  Come  and  judge 
for  yourself."  With  dexterous  force  he  draws  his  friend 
within  *the  entrance,  and  a  moment  later  they  await  the  tardy 
movements  of  an  antiquated  box-opener,  while  Rawdon  asks, — 

"  What  is  it  she  has  chosen  for  her  debut  ?" 

"  Faust." 

"  Ye  gods  !  defend  me  from  a  raw-boned  Marguerite  !  Why 
don't  she  play  in  Bouffe,  and  do  the  Grande  Duchesse,  or 
something  worthy  of  her  majestic  stride — and  stag-like  bear- 
ing— and  superabundant  inches  ?" 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Something  of  that  sort  would  suit 
her  excellently  well !"  returns  Jamieson,  gnawing  savagely 
the  golden  moustache  which  does  not  hide  his  perfect  mouth. 
"  But,  you  see,  she  has  her  own  opinions  of  the  fitness  of 
things." 

They  have  been  friends  from  boyhood,  these  two,  notwith- 
standing the  difference  in  their  ages,  and  up  to  the  time  of 
Rawdon's  trip  to  the  Continent  there  had  never  been  the  shadow 
of  reserve  between  them.  After  his  return  to  England,  how- 
ever, Noyes  Jamieson  had  been  made  aware  of  a  very  per- 
ceptible change  in  his  friend.  The  frank,  joyous,  impetuous 
youth  (hot-headed  and  utterly  irrational  he  had  often  called 
him)  had  grown  quiet,  moody,  and  cynical.  The  sanguine 
trustfulness  and  vehement  energy  which  had  sometimes  landed 
them  both  in  bogs  of  confusion,  had  given  place  to  a  lethargic 
indifference,  tinged  with  that  mistrustful  bitterness  towards  the 
other  sex  which  has  an  eloquence  of  its  own. 

That  Noyes  suspected  the  root  of  Lyster's  trouble  was  evi- 
dent in  the  fact  that  he  scrupulously  respected  the  unusual 
reserve  behind  which  his  friend  shielded  himself,  and  even 
when  he  quitted  England  suddenly,  setting  sail  for  the  other 
side  of  the  globe,  Jamie  wrung  his  hand  silently  when  he  went 


LA  URELS.  205 

down  to  see  him  off  at  Southampton,  without  remonstrance  or 
even  the  slightest  expression  of  curiosity.  Only,  the  bright 
brown  eyes  had  held  the  sympathetic  softness  of  a  woman's 
tenderness  within  them  as  they  watched  him  pass  over  the 
gunwale,  and  a  few  minutes  later  saw  the  brave  ship  steam 
away.  And  now  they  have  met  again,  and  the  change  which 
Noyes  had  silently  deplored  has  become  still  more  marked. 
That  Lethe  of  foreign  travel  which  is  supposed  to  restore  the 
minds  diseased  of  those  who  seek  oblivion  for  their  griefs,  has 
failed  to  renew  the  boyish  sparkle  in  the  violet  eyes  or  to  erase 
the  lines  about  the  mouth  and  between  the  brows,  making 
the  tired  face  appear  older  to-day  than  his  companion's. 
Le  Cheri  (as  Jamieson  is  sobriqueted  in  Parisian  circles 
because  of  his  pretty  face,  his  winning  ways,  and  his  exqui- 
sitely dorlotte  appearance)  wonders  vaguely  how  any  man  can 
cast  away  all  those  good  things  the  gods  provide  for  such  ex- 
ceptionally-favored mortals  as  his  friend,  and  himself,  for  the 
sake  of  one  solitary  woman,  who,  ten  to  one,  is  unworthy  of 
the  sacrifice.  Then  he  thanks  Heaven — or  his  Epicurean 
philosophy — that  never  a  night's  rest  or  a  good  dinner  has  he 
lost  for  the  wiliest  Delilah  of  them  all. 

"  You  have  brought  me  here  under  false  pretences !"  Raw- 
don  says,  a  little  wearily,  as  through  the  gloom  they  perceive 
that  the  drop-curtain  is  down,  and  that,  a  man  is  putting  out 
the  foot-lights. 

Jamieson  cannot  suppress  an  exclamation  of  disappointment. 
:<  Let  us  go  behind  the  scenes  and  make  inquiry,"  he  says. 
"  Surely  she  is  not  ill !  or  the  debut  postponed  !" 

At  the  accent  of  anxiety  in  his  voice  Lyster  smiles  grimly, 
and  they  make  their  way  through  the  dark  passage  leading  to 
the  stage.  Here  a  dingy-looking  lady,  upon  whom  some  fifty 
hard-working  winters  have  daubed  their  mark  (she  had  a  few 
moments  before  been  personating  a  coquettish  soubrette),  ap- 
proaches them,  and  informs  them  that  owing  to  a  slight  indis- 
position of  the  tenor  the  rehearsal  has  been  cut  short,  but 
that  there  will  be  a  "  dress"  one  on  Thursday  at  two  o'clock, 
"  if  (•('.<  nii-nxi'mrsi  would  care  to  assist  at  it." 

"  Bah  !"  interrupts  "  1c  C/n'ri."  turning  on  his  heel,  regard- 
less of  the  insinuating  leer  with  which  the  ancient  vestal 
accentuate  her  invitation.  '•  Conic.  I/VM.T.  I  have  wa>ie-I 
enough  of  your  time  here!"  He  has  taken  but  a  few  >tej.s 
'  18 


206  SOUCI. 

when  he  is  suddenly  arrested  by  an  exclamation  from  his 
friend. 

"  By  Jove  ! "' 

Rawdon  had  advanced  half  a  dozen  paces,  and  now  stands 
just  within  the  wings,  with  the  stage  before  him  diuily  lighted 
by  a  trap-door  in  the  flics.  Through  this  aperture  there 
streams  one  golden  bar  of  sunlight,  crossing  transversely  the 
dusky  stage  and  falling  directly  upon  the  head  and  face  of  a 
woman  standing  at  the  extreme  opposite  end  of  it.  She  is 
conversing  in  low  tones  with  the  manager,  a  little  man  with 
raven  hair  and  whiskers  (of  that  purplish  tinge  which  is  ad- 
vertised to  rejuvenate), — a  ne  plus  -ultra  of  French  elegance  in 
the  theatrical  line,  with  the  suave,  slightly-sentimental  manner 
inseparable  from  his  avocation.  He  is  listening  eagerly,  def- 
erentially, as  all  must  listen  to  that  haughty-looking  woman, 
Lyster  thinks. 

Perhaps  she  is  not  above  the  average  height  of  her  sex,  but 
the  erect,  nobly-developed  figure  and  the  proud  pose  of  the 
head  convey  the  impression  of  a  commanding  presence.  In 
these  degenerate  days  of  whalebone  and  buckram,  of  bustle 
and  pannier,  there  is  a  rare  suggestiveness  of  the  antique  in 
the  grand  and  beautiful  contours,  veiled,  not  hidden,  by  the 
close-fitting  black  gown,  whose  scant  skirt  boasts  no  other  style 
than  that  sublime  simplicity  beloved  by  sculptors — of  sparse 
draperies.  This  woman  is  a  true  artist :  she  would  no  more 
fetter  her  limbs  and  impede  her  circulation  by  one  or  the  other 
of  the  vagaries  of  fashion — or  disfigure  her  statuesque  head  by 
the  abominations  of  bad  taste  in  vogue — than  the  Venus  of 
the  Capitol  would  adopt  the  modern  chignon,  or  the  Farnese 
Hercules  induct  himself  into  the  dress-coat  of  civilization. 

"  Yet,  she  is  not  beautiful,"  Lyster  concludes,  inwardly, 
after  a  critical  survey.  "  Striking — yes  ;  but  too  still  and  cold, 
as  Jamie  said,  for  beauty  ;  too  neutral-tinted  ;  the  pale  yellow 
twists  of  her  hair  scarcely  relieve  sufficiently  that  sallow  skin  ; 
the  features  are  too  large,  and  the  chin  too  square ;  the  eyes 
are — simply  glorious !"  Outwardly  he  asks,  more  eagerly 
than  he  has  asked  anything  for  many  months,  "  You  know 
her,  Jamie?" 

"  I  have  that  pleasure,"  he  replies,  delighted  at  the  un- 
usual animation  manifested  by  his  friend.  "  Shall  I  present 
you,  dear  boy  ?" 


LA  URELS.  207 

"  Thanks ;  not  here."  And  Lystcr  draws  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  wings  as  the  regal-stopping  woman  sweeps  to- 
wards them,  and,  bestowing  an  inclination  of  the  head  and 
the  brightest  of  smiles  upon  Jamieson,  passes  swiftly  down 
the  dim  passage  into  a  dressing-room  beyond. 

"  Snubbed,  by  Jove  !"  mutters  Jamie,  flushing  with  vexation. 
"  She  must  have  seen  you,  Lyster  !" 

"  Yes,"  returns  the  other,  smiling,  "  there  is  something 
overwhelming  about  me,  I  confess ;  women  always  fly  at  my 
approach, — poor  little  dears !  But,  Jamie,  how  her  proud, 
cold  face  seemed  to  break  up  all  over  into  ripples  when  she 
smiled  at  you, — you  ungrateful  dog  !" 

"  She  generally  stops  to  speak  to  me,  and  gets  me  to 
her  in  her  carriage  ;  we  are  great  chums,  la  belle  Souci  and  I," 
drawls  Noyes,  as  they  quit  the  theatre  by  the  private  entrance, 
before  which  stands  a  neat  coupe. 

"  That  is  her  turn-out ;  tidy,  isn't  it  ?  Shall  we  wait  for 
her  ?"  An  almost  pleading  tone  in  his  voice  decides  Rawdon 
to  indulge  his  friend's  longing  for  the  accustomed  privilege  of 
closing  the  carriage-door  upon  this  last  infatuation. 

"  I  must  run  over  to  my  banker's,"  he  says,  consulting  his 
watch.  "  We  will  meet  later.  I  perceive  this  is  but  the  first 
chapter  of  a  three-volume  novel  whose  dreary  length  shall  be 
read  to  me  at  intervals  throughout  the  next  six  months.  Ah, 
Jamie,  Jamie,  why  can  you  not  learn  to  keep  your  head  cool  ?" 
With  a  mournful  sigh,  Rawdon  turns  away,  just  as  the  help- 
ictiui  whose  fate  he  deplores  advances,  with  a  beaming 
gladness  in  his  eyes,  to  meet  the  lady,  who,  bonneted  and 
veiled,  now  appears,  followed  by  an  elderly  attendant. 

••  Who  is  he — your  friend  ?"  are  her  first  words,  as  he  takes 
with  empressemtnt  the  hand  she  frankly  offers.  "  English — 
that  goes  without  saying — from  the  top  of  his  head  to  the  sole 
of  his  foot.  What  does  he  call  himself?" 

"  His  name  is  Rawdon, — Lyster  Rawdon, — a  very  old  friend 
of  mine.  I  was  going  to  take  the  liberty  of  bringing  him  to 
your  reception  on  Monday  next ;  may  I  ?" 

"  I  don't  know" — she  hesitates  : — "  he  looks  rather  morose; 
I  don't  like  gloomy  people.  The  reason  I  endure  you  is  that 
you  have  so  much  sunshine  about  you.  No;  I  imagine  I 
should  dislike  this  sunburnt  friend  of  yours!"  And  she  steps 
into  her  coupt  as  though  the  subject  were  dismissed  forever. 


208  SOUCI. 

"  But,"  persists  Jamie,  closing  the  door  upon  the  austere- 
looking  abigail  and  leaning  through  the  window,  "  he  is  niy 
friend, — sunburn  and  all.  We  have  known  each  other  since 
infancy.  Say  I  may  bring  him  !"  No  woman  under  sixty 
had  ever  been  able  to  resist  Jamie's  eyes  and  voice  when  they 
assumed  that  plaintive  tone  of  entreaty. 

"On  your  own  head  be  it,  thenl"  laughs  Souci.  "If  he 
proves  a  bore,  I  shall  never  forgive  you, — voila  tout!" 

"  No  fear  of  that,"  returns  Jamieson ;  "  he  is  the  most 
charming  man  I  know.  Been  all  over  the  world,  you  know, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  No  end  of  adventures  to  relate " 

t(-  Ah,  I  know  the  species,"  interrupts  Souci :  t;  a  lion  who 
is  always  expected  to  roar,  and  who  never  does.  I  have  deter- 
mined not  to  make  my  salon  a  menagerie  !  However,  I  have 
said  you  might  bring  him,  and  if  he  makes  himself  obnoxious — 
(ant pire  pour  vous,  mon  ami!"  And  then  she  pulls  the  check- 
string  and  desires  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Rue  d'Antin, 
leaving  Noyes  extremely  doubtful  whether  he  has  done  wisely 
to  crave  admission  for  this  friend  towards  whom  the  lady  af- 
fected so  much  indifference.  She  had  evidently  observed  him 
closely  during  her  conversation  with  the  stage-manager,  and 
Jamie  is  perfectly  aware  of  the  peril  which  lies  in  poor  Mrs. 
Malaprop's  unconscious  truism, — "  It  is  better  to  begin  with  a 
little  aversion." 

With  a  perturbed  spirit  he  strolls  over  to  the  florist's  to  offer 
up  his  daily  oblation  at  the  shrine  of  the  woman  who  does  not 
scruple  to  tell  him  that  she  endures  him  for  his  sunny  temper 
and  bright  eyes. 


LAURELS.  »  209 


CHAPTER  II. 
"HATH  SHE  HER  FAULTS?" 

"  Hath  she  her  faults  ?     I  would  you  had  them  too. 
They  are  the  fruity  must  of  soundest  wine; 
Or  say,  they  are  regenerating  fire, 
Such  as  hath  turned  the  dense,  black  element 
Into  a  crystal  pathway  for  the  sun !" 

"  JEANNE,  tell  him  to  stop  in  the  Rue  Vivienne :  I  must 
have  a  new  toilette  for  Monday  night.  I  have  taken  quite  a 
fancy  to  that  '  melancholy  Jaques.'  What  shall  it  be,  mon 
amie  ?" 

"  Ah  !  mam'selle  has  such  good  taste, — so  original ;  I  could 
not  suggest.  Mam'selle  will  wear  white,  as  usual  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly  !  it  is  too  warm  for  black,  and  I  never  touch 
colors.  But  white  offers  a  wide  field,  Jeanne ;  it  must  be 
something  odd  and  severe ;  something  rich  and  creamy, — fall- 
ing in  thick  folds, — with  cameos,  stone  cameos, — eh  ?" 

Her  companion's  smile  of  admiring  acquiescence  would  have 
been  equally  appreciative  if  she  had  decided  upon  serge  and . 
pearls ;  for  in  matters  of  dress  the  good  woman  was  ignorant 
as  one  of  the  month-old  calves  on  the  little  farm  where  Souci 
had  learned  to  value  her  strong,  true  heart  and  the  kindness 
which  had  succored  Tonio  and  herself  in  their  dire  distress. 
If  she  has  not  entirely  faded  from  recollection,  the  reader  will 
recognize  in  the  rugged,  homely  features,  which  soften  with 
sincere  affection  as  she  turns  towards  Souci,  the  wife  of  the 
cheery  old  farmer  who  had  rescued  her  from  death  on  the 
highway  years  ago. 

With  all  her  faults,  and  their  name  is  legion,  the  sentiment 
of  gratitude  is  not  wanting  in  Souci's  nature.  The  first  use 
she  had  made  of  her  instruction  in  penmanship  had  been  to 
send  voluminous  epistles  to  each  and  all  of  the  few  friends  who 
had  been  merciful  to  her  in  her  sad  childhood.  The  first  boon 
she  had  ever  solicited  from  Monsieur  Delacroix  had  been  the 

18* 


210  SOUCI. 

removal  of  the  good  farmer's  widow  (he  had  departed  this  life 
a  year  or  two  previous)  to  Paris  and  giving  her  the  position 
of  housekeeper  in  his  establishment.  This  Eaoul  had  readily 
granted,  and,  having  become  impressed  with  the  incorruptible 
honesty  and  conscientiousness  of  her  character,  had  constituted 
her  Souci's  sole  attendant,  after  she  had  quitted  school,  during 
his  unavoidable  engagements.  Thus  did  the  bread  which 
this  good  creature  had  cast  upon  the  waters  of  charity  return 
to  her  after  many  days. 

Nor  had  Souci  forgotten  her  promise  to  Monsieur  The'ophile, 
the  little  tailor,  and  his  chirpy  wife,  Nanine.  They  have  been 
sent  for  from  Lyons  to  assist  at  her  first  appearance  on  the 
stage  in  Paris,  and  are  enjoying  their  rare  holiday  at  Mon- 
sieur Delacroix's  expense,  as  only  hard-working,  jovial-hearted 
French  ouvriers  can. 

Had  the  girl  been  able  to  appropriate  the  principal  boxes  of 
the  "  Theatre  Lyrique'1  to  the  famille  Margot  and  the  entire 
establishment  at  No.  6  Rue  des  Acacias  (of  course  excepting 
Mere  Ursule  and  her  grandson,  for  Souci  could  hate  as  in- 
tensely as  she  could  love),  she  would  assuredly  have  sung  her 
very  best  for  their  delectation. 

And  Tonio  ? 

Alas !  into  that  chamber  of  her  heart  she  dares  not  often 
glance.  The  grateful  affection  which  seeks  constant  expression 
towards  those  others  who  had  shown  her  kindness,  rarely  finds 
courage  to  peer  into  that  secret  cell  where  the  image  of  Tonio 
is  set  up  as  on  an  altar.  There,  sometimes,  she  goes  alone  in 
the  silent  night-hours,  with  tears  and  trembling,  to  look  upon 
her  idol  through  a  vista  of  retrospective  joy  and  pain, — through 
a  halo  of  hope,  which  she  still  cherishes  in  her  tenacious  heart. 

Although  Monsieur  Delacroix's  earnest  efforts  had  proved 
unavailing,  and  no-  trace  had  been  obtained  of  her  friend 
through  all  these  years,  Souci  has  never  despaired  of  meeting 
him  again.  Had  he  not  promised  that  this  should  be  ?  Her 
trust  in  him  is  no  less  infinite  than  her  love.  Tima^  cruel  in 
obliterating,  more  cruel  still  sometimes  in  sparing,  has  wrought 
no  change  in  the  girl's  one  idolatrous  devotion.  It  continues 
to  be  the  spring  and  motive  of  every  effort ;  for  it  she  resolves 
to  make  herself  charming,  to  overcome  her  graceless  sullen- 
ness  of  manner  and  her  scragginess  of  outline.  "From  the 
moment  the  seed  of  hope  had  been  cast  into  the  fruitful  soil 


LAURELS.  211 

of  her  heart,  she  had  determined  to  live,  to  fulfil  the  destiny 
she  had  dreamed  of,  and  outwardly  had  become  a  different 
creature. 

And  inwardly  ?  Do  the  primary  elements  of  character  ever 
really  change  ?  They  may  be  modified  or  exaggerated  by 
suffering,  by  circumstances,  by  the  influences  of  religion  ;  or 
suppressed  by  hypocrisy  or  the  regulations  of  society ;  but  do 
they  not  remain  radically  the  same, — in  blossom  as  in  bud, 
in  full  flower  as  in  blossom  ? 

Yet  this  woman  is  incapable  of  small  vices ;  the  heartless 
deceptions  of  ordinary  women  of  the  world  are  despicable  to 
lier ;  the  little  meannesses  of  envy,  malice,  and  uncharitableness 
are  repulsive  to  her.  She  can  never  be  anything  but  fearless, 
daring,  and  intolerant  of  hypocrisy  ;  carrying  into  her  plan  of 
life  a  broad  eclecticism  which  holds  a  curious  power  of  sifting 
the  worthy  from  the  worthless,  the  true  from  the  false.  Witli 
her  "I  dare  not"  never  is  allowed  to  wait  upon  "  I  would,"  and 
the  wilful  imperiousness  of  her  childhood  has  developed  into 
a  haughty  impassibility  which  accepts  the  devotion  of  those 
about  her  calmly,  as  her  due. 

One  year  ago,  Mademoiselle  Coulous  had  pronounced  Souci 
a  finished  pupil,  "  having  made  miraculous  progress  during  her 
four  years'  sojourn  in  our  unrivalled  establishment ;  and  having 
acquired  from  association  with  the  various  demoiselles  de  In 
lunitc  aristocratic  composing  our  select  coterie,  the  grande  air 
which  pervades  the  atmosphere  of  our  exclusive  seminary." 

Signore  Valdiui  had  also  professed  himself  satisfied  with 
the  arduous  cultivation  of  her  voice,  predicting  that  another 
year's  careful  study  would  create  a  stir  in  musical  circles  which 
Paris  had  not  experienced  for  years. 

A  handsome  suite  of  rooms  having  been  prepared  for  aer  use 
in  the  Rue  d'Antin,  Souci  had  bent  every  energy  of  her  nature 
to  the  fulfilment  of  her  master's  prophecy. 

With  the  devotion  of  a  born  artist,  she  threw  herself  heart 
and  soul  into  the  one  absorbing  pursuit;  to  it  she  sacrificed 
all  others :  giving  ungrudgingly  time,  labor,  patience  indom- 
itable. 

But,  when  the  year  had  drawn  to  a  close,  Raoul  Delacroix 
found  himself  tormented  by  sore  misgivings;  a  repugnance 
which  seemed  insurmountable  having  suddenly  seized  him  at 
the  thought  of  a  professional  career  for  this  girl.  She  was 


212  SOUCL 

happy  and  content  as  she  was ;  her  rare  gift  was  in  itself  an 
ituudi. le  joy  to  her;  his  means  were  adequate  to  afford  her 
every  advantage,  comfort,  and  luxury :  wherefore  should  he 
thrust  her,  with  her  dangerous  fascination  and  manifold  at- 
tractions, into  that  mad  vortex, — the  artist  circle  of  dissolute 
Paris? 

Thus  he  argued  with  himself  throughout  many  a  restless 
night,  revolving  the  question  in  his  perplexed  brain,  unable  for 
a  time  to  arrive  at  a  satisfactory  conclusion.  Had  he  not 
undertaken  the  education  of  this  glorious  creature  for  this 
very  end  ?  Had  she  not  fulfilled  his  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions, and  had  this  result  not  cost  him  much  time,  weary 
thought,  and  anxiety? 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  cowardly  shrinking  from  the 
prosecution  of  his  plans, — this  desire  to  shirk  the  true  music- 
lover's  instinct  to  give  the  wide  world  the  benefit  of  so  inesti- 
mable a  talent  ? 

At  last — on  the  day  when  the  negotiation  with  the  Director 
of  the  Vienna  Opera-House  was  to  have  been  concluded — he 
had  spoken.  With  wide-dilated  eyes  of  surprise  and  disap- 
pointment Souci  had  listened  to  his  proposal  that  they  should 
abandon  the  idea  of  a  public  appearance.  Rapidly  he  had  ex- 
plained his  reasons,  and  expressed  his  entire  willingness  to  pro- 
vide amply  for  her  always  ;  her  eyes  had  but  grown  more  wild, 
her  face  blanched  to  a  more  deadly  pallor.  It  was  only  when 
the  words,  "  It  is  impossible  !  I  cannot  give  up  my  career  !" 
had  broken  from  the  white  lips,  that  Raoul  Delacroix  had  ap- 
preciated to  its  full  extent  the  passionate  ambition  which  had 
taken  possession  of  the  girl ;  that  he  recognized  the  motive 
power  which  had  carried  her  triumphantly  through  those  long 
years  of  patient  study ;  and  that  he  had  been  forced  to  ac- 
knowledge to  himself  the  bitter  pain  her  resolute  determination 
cost  him. 

Few  words  had  passed  between  them  after  that  one  low- 
spoken  but  vehement  refusal ;  the  letter,  ratifying  the  agreement 
with  the  Austrian  manager,  had  been  sent ;  and  Raoul  had 
silently  made  a  sacrifice  to  which  each  day  brought  renewed 
bitterness.  A  sacrifice  ?  Could  anything  be  counted  a  sacri- 
fice which  added  now  lustre  to  the  shrine  at  which  he  had 
offered  up  the  devotion  of  a  lifetime  ?  Would  not  the  world 
of  art  be  infinitely  the  richer  in  the  possession  of  the  treasure 


LA  UP  ELS.  213 

which  he,  and  he  alone,  had  rescued  from  the  mire  of  the 
Paris  streets?  Would  he,  of  all  men,  have  been  content  to 
hide  such  genius  as  this — Souci's  dramatic  ability  being  no 
less  exceptional  than  her  wonderful  vocalization — under  that 
oppressive  bushel, — private  life?  Had  this  srifted  creature 
not  proved  the  force  of  the  artist  element  wnhin  her?  had 
she  not  labored  and  struggled  bravely  ?  cherished  and  prized 
the  delicate  organ  through  which  she  aspired  to  win  the  fame 
at  which  he  had  pointed  ?  How  well  he  remembered  with 
what  ungirlish  firmness  she  had  resisted  his  kindly  endeavor  to 
provide  for  her  an  occasional  holiday  during  her  monotonous 
school-days,  dreading  for  her  the  close  confinement,  the  tread- 
mill routine,  to  which  she  was  so  unaccustomed  !  "  I  have  no 
time  to  waste,"  she  would  say,  with  a  grave  shake  of  the  head. 
"  You  are  kind,  but — I  have  a  very  difficult  exercise  to  study, 
and  Signore  Valdini  conies  to-day."  Nor  could  he  forget  the 
almost  unnatural  strength  of  will  by  which  she  had  disciplined 
herself  to  obey  to  the  letter  the  rigorous  exactions  and  restric- 
tions of  this  master  who  held  the  wand  of  her  future  greatness. 

After  he  had  convinced  himself  of  the  power  and  compass 
of  her  voice,  and  listened  with  fierce  frowns  of  disapproval, 
stampings  of  his  feet,  and  shoulder-shruggings,  to  the  warbling 
of  several  favorite  ditties,  Valdini  had  laid  down  his  rules, — 
irksome  and  fretting  many  of  them, — and  she  had  inviolably 
obeyed  him.  At  first  he  had  only  permitted  her  to  practise 
five  minutes  at  a  time  several  times  a  day,  and  she,  who  had 
carolled  by  the  hour  in  the  noisy  streets,  offered  no  resistance. 
After  six  months'  rest  she  had  been  allowed  some  half-hours, 
separated  by  intervals  of  repose,  each  of  them  dedicated  to 
the  dullest  and  most  mechanical  exercises.  She  had  never 
transgressed  his  commands,  however,  and  the  result  had  repaid 
them  both.  Should  not  Raoul  Delacroix  have  been  amply 
satisfied  with  his  experiment?  Alas,  had  the  secret  of  her  do- 
cility, her  energy,  and  her  perseverance  been  made  plain  to  him, 
— had  he  heard  the  vow  she  had  consecrated  with  her  tours, 
a-  -he  whispered  it  to  the  old  violin  in  that  desolate  hour 
which  had  formed  the  turning-point  of  her  life, — even  then  I 
doubt  whether  his  pain  would  have  been  intensified. 

No  nitric  arm  of  flesh  could  more  thoroughly  separate  Souci 
from  himself  than  this  wide  sea  of  restless  ambition,  of  wild 
adulation,  into  which  he  had  plunged  her. 


214  SOUCI. 


«  CHAPTER  III. 

"  SWEET   WERE   THE   DAYS   WHEN   I   WAS   ALL   UNKNOWN." 

....  "And  now  above  them  pours  a  wondrous  voice, 

Such  as  Greek  reapers  heard  in  Sicily ; 

With  wounding  rapture  in  it  like  love's  arrows !" 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

"Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all  unknown, 
But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the  storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not  for  it." 

TENNYSON. 

"  IN  the  name  of  all  the  gods,"  ejaculates  Noyes  Jamieson, 
"  what  can  have  become  of  Rawdon  ?  I  have  not  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  boy  for  days.  He'll  be  late,  of  course;  if  he 
comes  in  after  the  curtain  rises  I  hope  he  may  be  mobbed. 
Did  anybody  ever  see  such  a  crowd  ?  Ah,  here  he  is  !" 

"  Good  house  for  your  divinity  !"  whispers  Lyster,  after  he 
has  surveyed  the  assemblage  through  his  glass  for  some  mo- 
ments in  silence. 

"  Sit  down,  and  don't  make  a  fuss,  there's  a  good  fellow  !" 
is  Jamie's  slightly  irritable  reply.  "  I  thought  you  were  never 
coming, — the  overture  begins  in  half  a  minute."  He  pulls 
out  his  watch  nervously. 

Rawdon,  with  a  glance  at  his  eager  face,  a  trifle  rosier  than 
usual  from  excitement,  seeing  how  it  is  with  him,  good- 
naturedly  abstains  from  further  observation,  and  drops  into  a 
fauteuil  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  loge. 

A  moment  later  the  curtain  rises. 

Mephistopheles  is  passable, — the  tenor  delightful.  Raw- 
don, who  is  not  indifferent  to  music,  hopes  that  if  he  is 
encored,  his  friend  may  exercise  decent  self-control  and  restrain 
any  signs  of  disapprobation  which  his  impatience  for  Margue- 
rite's appearance  may  prompt. 

The  applause  dies  away,  however,  without  disastrous  conse- 
quences, and  then  there  is  a  hush  throughout  the  closely -packed 


LAURELS.  215 

house.  That  indefinable  murmur — a  commingling  of  whisper 
and  .silk-rustle  and  fan-waving  which  sets  the  teeth  of  music- 
worshippers  on  edge — is  stilled,  as  the  new  prima  donna  comes 
forward  with  graceful  ease  but  wildly-fluttering  heart,  and  cheek 
white  as  the  waxen  pallor  of  the  tuberose.  She  is  greeted  by 
a  very  moderate  amount  of  enthusiasm ;  the  audience  is  inclined 
to  be  critical  to-night. 

Then  she  sings. 

Musical  connoisseurs,  who  had  come  determined  to  find 
fault,  lean  back  in  their  chairs  and  close  their  eyes  lest  some 
awkward  gesture  or  untoward  movement  on  the  part  of  the 
singer  or  her  companion  should  mar  the  effect  of  such  perfect 
harmony.  Rival  prime  donne,  in  despairing  envy,  hide  their 
faces,  grown  livid  under  the  rouge,  behind  their  fans  or  the 
curtains  of  their  loges.  The  tenor,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  forgets  himself,  and  stands  rapt  in  a  delicious  ecstasy.  In 
Jamie's  cheek  the  color  fluctuates  ;  his  hands  clutch  spasmod- 
ically the  velvet  cushion  beneath  which  rest  his  floral  offer- 
ings, crushing  the  most  superb  of  them  unwittingly  under-foot 
in  his  agitation. 

Raoul  Delacroix,  sitting  far  back  in  the  shadow  of  his  box, 
forgets  his  pain  in  the  appreciation  of  the  artist ;  borne  away 
on  the  wings  of  this  exquisite  melody  out  of  the  reach  of 
.selfish  regret,  into  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  art-enthusiasm. 

How  proud  he  is  of  her  !  How  his  deep-set  eyes  glow,  and 
his  hand  shakes,  as  he  wipes  the  great  drops  of  moisture  off 
his  wide,  music-loving  brow  !  How  his  heart  throbs  when  at 
lust  there  resounds  throughout  the  house  such  rapturous 
applause  as  even  the  Parisian  audiences  seldom  bestow ! 

But  this  is  not  the  stereotyped  "  Marguerite"  of  the  foot- 
lights and  the  green-room.  It  is  an  original  impersonation, — 
original  in  being  the  living,  breathing  conception  of  Gounod's 
love-dream, — represented  to-night  for  the  first  time  in  public. 

In  her  acting  is  that  rhythmic  harmony,  that  absence  of 
self-consciousness  and  entire  dramatic  abandon  which  go  hand 
in  hand  with  her  faultless  vocalization.  There  is  nothing  to 
jar,  nothing  to  offend  eye  or  ear.  From  nape  to  ankle  she 
is  perfect  in  outline,  in  attitude,  in  movement.  What  her 
features  lack  in  classic  regularity  they  gain  in  force,  in  versa- 
tility of  expression,  in  depth  of  passion.  In  every  heart — 
even  the  seared  and  withered  ones — the  old,  old  story  finds  an 


216  SOUCI. 

echo  to-night.  Every  pulse  quickens  into  sympathetic  rapport 
with  this  marvellous  portrayal  of  impassioned  nature. 

With  a  proud  composure — almost  too  calm  and  still  not  to 
betray  itself  as  a  shield  for  tumultuous  heart-beats — Souci  ac- 
knowledges the  furore  of  applause  which  she  has  called  forth, 
and  which  thrills  her  with  a  new,  delicious  sense  of  power. 

Her  great  gray  eyes  have  caught  from  the  spirit  within  the 
divine  fire  of  genius ;  the  large,  sensitive  mouth  curves  into 
the  most  bewildering  smiles ;  the  dilated  nostrils  quiver  with 
suppressed  excitement.  Her  hour  of  victory  has  come  !  The 
hour  for  which  she  had  fought  and  toiled  and  struggled  ;  of 
which  she  had  dreamed  in  her  sad  childhood, — in  her  strange, 
•self-absorbed  girlhood.  The  hour  for  which  she  had  done 
brave  battle  with  the  various  devils  that  possessed  her,  bind- 
ing herself  down  by  the  shackles  of  conventional  propriety 
that  galled  her  free  Bohemian  limbs  like  fetters.  As  the  very 
breath  of  life  to  her  had  been  the  untrammelled,  irresponsi- 
ble, often  reckless,  existence  she  had  always  known,  but  with 
firm  hand  she  had  grasped  her  errant  yearnings  and  forced 
them  into  the  narrow  groove  of  a  routine  against  which  every 
strong,  wild  instinct  of  her  nature  rebelled,  when  the  possible 
dawning  of  this  glorious  hour  had  been  forecast  to  her. 

And  now  it  is  here !  Her  name  rings  throughout  the 
house ;  a  hoarse  roar  of  bravas  mingles  with  the  din  of 
clapped  hands  and  of  murmured  delight.  Her  sovereignty  is 
established ;  the  power  that  is  in  her  commands  an  acknowl- 
edgment from  the  world, — that  world  which  a  few  years  ago  had 
held  her  in  as  utter  contempt  as  the  dust  upon  its  highways. 
Through  every  fibre  of  her  being  she  realizes  the  glorious  con- 
viction that  she  has  conquered  ;  that  she  has  raised  herself  to 
the  pinnacle  of  her  aspirations ;  that  the  past  is  past,  and  the 
future  a  gorgeous  pageant  stretching  out  before  her.  As  in 
all  great  crises,  thought  crowds  overwhelmingly  upon  her  as 
she  stands'  with  head  erect,  and  parted  lips,  and  eyes  alit, 
drinking  in  the  incense  that  she  has  won  at  last. 

Suddenly  the  uplifted  eyes  grow  wonderfully  soft,  the  mobile 
lips  tremble,  and  Souci  takes  a  step  forward,  as,  whirling  through 
the  air  from  an  upper  tier  of  boxes,  comes  a  simple  wreath  of 
the  common  marigold.*  Observing  the  involuntary  movement 

*  The  French  name  for  the  marigold  is  flottci. 


LA  UK  ELS.  217 

of  the  prima  donna,  the  tenor,  with  ready  tact,  but  not  with- 
out a  slight  elevation  of  eyebrow,  rescues  this  homely  offering 
from  the  flower-heaped  stage — and  presents  it. 

Without  bestowing  a  glance  upon  the  costly  exotics  which 
rain  down  upon  her,  Souci  places  the  tiny  wreath  with  in- 
finite grace  upon  her  yellow  crown  of  hair,  and  with  a  slight 
wave  of  the  hand  and  a  beaming  smile,  directed  exclusively  to 
M.  Theophile,  she  retires  amid  renewed  plaudits. 

A  clever  bit  of  acting  many  think  it,  taken  in  connection 
with  the  stories  circulated  of  her  obscure  origin, — sure  to  take 
with  the  populace,  etc. 

Poor  little  Theophile  loses  his  head  completely.  Having 
already  dropped  a  couple  of  gorgeous-hued  handkerchiefs  over" 
the  ledge  of  his  box,  he  searches  vainly  in  every  pocket  for  a 
third,  and  eventually  seizing  Nanine's  neatly-crimped  cap, 
nearly  carrying  off  with  it  her  insecure  chignon,  he  waves  it 
frantically  in  a  perfect  delirium  of  delight. 

Noyes  Jamieson  sits  down  out  of  breath  and  discomfited. 
Souci  has  not  vouchsafed  him  a  thought;  and  of  the  floral  offer- 
ings upon  which  he  had  expended  much  forethought  and 
more  money,  but  one  had  she  deemed  worthy  of  a  glance,  and 
that  happened  to  be  the  very  bouquet  he  had  been  grinding 
under  his  feet  for  half  an  hour,  and  with  which  he  had  just 
missed  putting  out  the  tenor's  eye. 


It  is  close  upon  midnight  when  a  surging,  excited  multitude 
pours  forth  into  the  silent,  starlit  street  from  the  open  doors  of 
the  "  Lyrique,"  like  a  company  of  lunatics  escaping  from  Bed- 
lam. They  throng  about  the  private  exit,  before  which  Souci's 
brougham  awaits  her.  When  at  last  she  appears,  escorted  by 
M.  Delacroix  and  Valdini,  and  looking  worn  and  weary,  the 
air  is  rent  by  frantic  acclamations ;  her  horses  are  rapidly  de- 
tached from  the  carriage,  and  a  noisy  mob  is  squabbling  for 
the  honor  of  acting  in  their  stead. 

But  the  fire,  the  brilliancy,  the  verve  of  the  past  few  hours 
have  faded.  Souci  is  tasting  already  the  lees  under  the  foam 
and  sparkle  of  the  draught  -she  has  been  so  eagerly  quaffing. 
"  After  all,"  she  i.s  saving  to  herself,  as  she  sinks  wearily  back 
on  the  cushions,  i:  Tonio  is  not  here  to  see  it  all.  What  are 
these  people  to  me?" 

K  19 


218  SOUCI. 

Arrived  in  the  Rue  d'Antin,  they  are  scarcely  surprised  to 
find  her  with  her  head  drooped  upon  her  breast,  cold  and 
white  «s  marble :  she  has  fainted 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  LIE   STILL,   YOUNG  ADDER  !" 

"  Dissipation  of  mind  and  length  of  time  are  the  remedies  to  which 
the  greatest  part  of  mankind  trust  in  their  afflictions.  But  the  first  of 
these  works  a  temporary,  the  second  a  slow  effect,  and  such  are  unworthy 
of  a  wise  man." — BOLIXGBROKE. 

"If  the  way  be  troublesome,  and  you  are  in  misery,  in  many  griev- 
ances, on  the  other  side  you  have  many  pleasant  sports,  objects,  sweet 
smells,  delightsome  tastes,  music,  meats,  herbs,  flowers,  etc.,  to  recreate 
your  senses." — BURTON. 

LYSTER  RAWDON  finds  the  night  too  oppressive  for  sleep 
upon  returning  to  his  hotel.  Throwing  wide  the  windows  of 
his  room,  he  steps  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  there  consumes 
one  cigar  after  another  in  the  vain  effort  to  tranquillize  his 
nerves. 

It  may  be  the  marvellous  voice  which  has  produced  so  power- 
ful an  effect  upon  its  hearers,  that  so  strangely  thrills  and 
stirs  him,  causing  the  hardly-acquired  stoicism,  which  he  be- 
lieves to  be  the  best  substitute  for  happiness,  to  crumble  away, 
leaving  emptiness  behind. 

Who  can  trace  these  psychological  perturbations, — these 
soul-tremblings  and  flesh-shrinkings, — just  when  we  are  con- 
gratulating ourselves  upon  our  immunity  from  such  weak- 
nesses ? 

Miserable  puppets  that  we  are !  We  discover  one  day  that 
we  are  making  ourselves  ridiculous;  that  invisible  wires  have 
been  fastened  to  our  heart-strings,  which  force  us  to  dance 
upon  the  air, — to  caper  nimbly  hither  and  thither, — to  contort 
ourselves  absurdly  or — pitiably. 

We  decide  at  last  that  we  have  made  fools  of  ourselves ;  we 
make  an  heroic  resolve,  and  with  unflinching  hand  tear  apart 


LAURELS.  219 

•wires  from  heart-strings, — losing,  perhaps,  some  of  our  best 
life-blood  in  the  effort. 

No  more  wriggling,  no  more  dangling,  no  more  dancing  on 
the  delusive  air !  We  stand  now  self-respected,  self-supported  ; 
wrapped  in  that  ghastly  dignity  which  a  certain  Roman  drew 
about  him  when  he  seated  himself  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
city  lying  a  desolate  waste  before  him. 

Then,  alas, — "just  when  we  are  safest," — something  sud- 
denly stirs  us, — a  strain  of  music — the  perfume  of  a  flower, 
— and,  lo !  the  work  is  undone ;  the  wires  are  tugging  at 
us  as  fiercely  as  before !  Who  does  not  know  this  unguarded 
moment,  when 

.  ..."  A  sunset  touch,  a  fancy  from  a  flower-bell," 

can  "  rap  and  knock,  and  enter  in  our  soul," — to  its  undoing? 

To-night  the  past  two  years  seem  suddenly  to  have  rolled 
themselves  up  as  a  scroll,  leaving  a  clear  background  for  the 
remembrance  Lyster  Rawdon  has  striven  so  zealously  to  crush 
out  under  those  Juggernaut-wheels, — which  maim  oftener 
than  they  kill, — restless  change  and  ceaseless  excitement. 

Looking  out  moodily  over  the  tranquil,  sleeping  city,  one 
scene  keeps  repeating  itself  persistently  before  his  mind's  eye : 
a  scene  whose  calm,  domestic  peacefulness  forms  a  painful 
contrast  to  the  unquiet  wandering  which  had  followed  it. 

How  well  he  remembers  every  detail  of  it, — that  last 
morning  view  of  the  home  of  his  boyhood, — Harrowdale 
Court !  How  brightly  the  sun  shone  !  how  vividly-green  the 
lawn  looked  from  the  open  windows  of  the  cosy  breakfast- 
room  !  He  remembers  how  curiously  his  uncle  eyed  him  as 
he  tapped  his  egg,  and  that  a  favorite  pointer  thrust  his  cold 
nose  into  his  hand  at  the  very  moment  when  the  question  was 
asked  which  called  a  flush  of  boyish  confusion  to  his  cheek 
and  caused  him  an  unwonted  stammering. 

"  Who  is  she,  Lyster  ?  There  is  something  troubling  you, 
my  boy, — and  a  woman  is  generally  at  the  bottom  of  all 
trouble.  Who  is  she?" 

How  perfectly  he  recalls  the  effort  it  cost  him  to  raise  to 
those  cold,  scrutinizing  eyes  his  own,  while  he  answrml 
steadily,  though  with  much  inward  trepidation,  "  You  are 
right,  uncle ;  it  is  a  woman, — the  woman  I  hope,  and  intend, 
to  marry  one  day,  please  God !" 


220  SOUCI. 

To  this  Lord  Harrowdale  had  replied  only  by  a  low 
whistle,  which  may,  or  may  not,  have  been  addressed  to  the 
pointer,  and  Lyster  had  gone  on  nervously, — 

"  I  know  your  views,  uncle ;  you  have  stated  them  to  me 
too  distinctly  to  be  misunderstood.  You  look  for  me  to  make 
an  ambitious  marriage, — to  choose  a  bride  with  a  pedigree  as 
long  as  your  own, — to  bring  to  the  Court  only  a  lady  of  rank, 
and  an  Englishwoman." 

"  Precisely,"  was  the  laconic  response,  as  his  lordship  care- 
fully dropped  a  morsel  of  anchovy-toast  into  the  pointer's  ex- 
pectant jaws. 

"  You  will,  no  doubt,  feel  justly  vexed,  then,"  Lyster  had 
continued,  chilled  and  somewhat  irritated  by  the  other's  im- 
passibility ;  "  for  this  girl  is  neither  a  peeress  nor  an  English- 
woman." 

There  had  been  a  pause  of  some  moments  after  this,  during 
which  Lord  Harrowdale  had  gently  pushed  the  dog's  head  from 
his  knee,  and  hard  directed  his  eyeglass  towards  a  pile  of  letters 
lying  near  his  plate. 

"  Ah,"  he  had  begun,  at  last,  replacing  his  glass  in  its  pocket 
and  leaning  back  in  his  wheel-chair,  "  she  is  not  a  peeress  or 
an  Englishwoman.  What  is  she?" 

"  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  German  musician — a  violinist. 
It  was  to  her  home  I  was  carried  after  my  accident ;  it  is  to 
their  kindness  and  hospitality  I  owe  my  Hie." 

"And  you  intend  to  cancel  your  obligation  by  sacrificing 
to  them  the  life  they  saved?"  had  inquired  his  uncle,  the 
faintest  inflection  of  sarcasm  in  his  clear  tones. 

"  I  intend  to  devote  to  them  the  life  they  have  made  val- 
uable to  me  !"  Rawdon  remembers,  with  a  curling  lip,  how 
proudly  and  firmly  these  words  were  spoken.  And  then, — 
a  faint  hope  borrowed  from  his  uncle's  silence, — "  There  is 
no  woman  in  England  to  equal  this  girl  in  beauty ;  she  is 
well  educated — refined " 

"  Enough,  sir !"  Lord  Harrowdale  had  interrupted,  coldly. 
"  I  perceive  you  have  caught  the  complaint, — it  is  inevitable, 
and  innocuous  as  measles,  if  judiciously  treated.  The  symp- 
toms, however,. are  not  interesting;  you  will  spare  me  their 
diagnosis,  and,  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  allow  me  to  prescribe 
for  them.  Leave  England — travel — avoid  the  Alps — see  the 
world,  and  come  back — cured!"  Then  he  had  motioned  his 


LAURELS.  221 

man,  who  had  entered  at  that  moment,  to  wheel  his  chair  out 
upon  the  lawn,  and  so  had  ended  the  discussion. 

The  opportune  entrance  of  Popham  had  stemmed  the  tor- 
rent of*indignant  rejection  of  this  cold-blooded  advice  which 
had  welled  up  in  the  young  man's  heart.  How  bitterly  thank- 
lul  he  is  to-night  that  that  much  humiliation  at  least  had  been 
spared  him  !  It  is  enough  for  him  to  remember  with  what 
fury  in  his  soul  he  had  dashed  down  the  avenue  that  morn- 
ing, striding  along  under  the  grand  old  trees,  shaking  the  dust 
off  his  feet  as  he  quitted  the  Court  before  his  uncle's  very 
eyes.  With  what  a  vengeful  Ishmaelitish  feeling  he  had 
rushed  up  to  town  with  but  one  definite  purpose  before  him, 
— to  bind  himself  by  every  possible  and  impossible  vow  to 
the  gentle  maiden  who  had  now  become  inestimably  dear  to 
him ! 

All  of  which  had  been  patent  to  Lord  Harrowdale's  obser- 
vation— knowing  well  his  nephew's  impetuous  temperament — 
as  he  watched  him  go  forth  in  anger  from  his  gates.  "  He  is 
entirely  dependent  upon  me,"  had  mused  his  lordship,  as  he 
put  up  his  glass  to  follow  admiringly  the  easy  swing  of  the 
well-knit  frame,  to  catch  the  glint  of  the  sunlight  on  the  close- 
cropped  chestnut  hair.  "The  estate  is  unentailed,  thank 
Heaven !  The  affair  is  very  simple." 

But  the  affair  had  proved  less  simple  than  he  had  anticipated. 
Two  years  have  elapsed  since  that  June  morning,  and  his 
nephew — the  one  being  on  earth  whom  he  loves — is  still  absent 
from  England  and  Harrowdale  Court. 

"  Two  years  !"  -Lyster  Rawdon  says  to  himself,  as  he  refolds 
and  replaces  in  his  pocket-book  a  poor  little  dilapidated  letter, 
which  had  cost  Viola  the  bitterest  tears  she  had  ever  shed. 
"  Two  whole  years  spent  in  trying  to  crush  the  life  out  of  this 
viper — to  have  it  rise  up  and  sting  once  more  !  But  it  shall 
not  be  !  No,  no  !  lie  still,  young  adder !"  striking  the  breast- 
pocket where  the  letter  rests  ;  "  there  are  antidotes  to  be  had, 
even  for  your  poisonous  venom  !" 

But  when  morning  pours  its  beams  into  the  room,  they  fall 
upon  the  bowed  head  of  a  man  who  has  fallen  asleep  in  his 
chair,  and  awaken  him  from  a  dream  whose  infinite  sweetness 
and  hopelessness  cause  the  sun's  rays  to  blind  him  with  sharp, 
unendurable  pain.  Involuntarily  he  draws  down  the  shades, 
without  glancing  down  into  the  bright,  already-bustling  street, 

19* 


222  SOUCL 

then,  stretching  his  cramped  limbs,  he  takes  a  turn  or  two  in 
the  darkened  room.  Finally  he  rings  for  his  bath,  and  half 
an  hour  later  is  sauntering  towards  the  Club,  with  a  bitter 
smile  distorting  his  handsome  mouth  as  he  mutters,  a  I  shall 
get  Jamie  to  take  me  to  see  that  singer  to-day ;  I  shall  not 
wait  until  Monday !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

"OUR  WHOLE   LIFE   IS  A  GLUCUPICRON." 

"  There  is  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil !" — C.  LAMB. 

.  .  .  .  "  Our  whole  life  is  a  glucupicron,  a  bitter-sweet  passion  ;  honey 
and  gall  mixed  together}  we  are  all  miserable  and  discontent ;  who  can 
deny  it? 

"  We  are  sent  as  so  many  soldiers  into  this  world  to  strive  with  it,  the 
flesh,  the  devil;  our  life  is  a  warfare." — Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

"  I  WOULD  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  Lyster, — I 
need  not  tell  you  that, — but  this  is  simply  out  of  the  question. 
Mile.  Basselin  never  receives  in  the  forenoon  ;  she  would  not 
pardon  an  intrusion  of  this  sort.  You  might  as  well  ask  me 
to  walk  into  Eugenie's  private  apartments  in  the  Tuileries ! 
Be  patient,  old  fellow :  Monday  evening  is  not  a  century  off." 

Thus  Noyes  Jamieson  seeks  to  curb  a  sudden  relapse  into 
the  unbridled  impetuosity  of  former  days,  and  to  prevent  his 
friend,  in  whose  face  is  a  strained  and  haggard  look,  out  of 
keeping  with  his  abrupt  accession  of  rather  forced  gayety,  from 
committing  a  faux  pas  in  social  tactics.  Rawdon,  who  has 
tried  in  vain  to  breakfast,  and  succeeded  only  in  swallowing  a 
glass  or  two  of  claret,  replies  to  this  outburst,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  Then  I  shall  go  alone  !  I  only  fancied  that  perhaps  this  lady 
clings  to  the  conventional  absurdities  of  society,  and  would 
prefer  to  hear  my  name  lisped  by  a  mutual  acquaintance 
during  the  ceremony  of  presentation  ;  but  you  know  best,  dear 
boy  ;  and  as  you  deem  it  unnecessary,  I  shall  go  and  introduce 
myself!  Ta!-ta  !"  and,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  towards  hor- 
ror-stricken Jamie,  standing  stock-still  with  astonishment  on 


LA  URELS.  223 

the  pavement,  Lyster  hails  a  passing  cab,  and  is  rapidly  whirled 
away  towards  the  Rue  d'Antin. 

It  is  a  quarter  to  twelve,  he  ascertains  by  a  glance  at  his 
watch,  as  the  driver  checks  his  horses  in  front  of  M.  Delacroix's 
appartement.  "  She  does  not  look  like  a  woman  who  would 
be  in  bed  at  this  hour,"  he  thinks,  as  he  springs  to  the  ground 
and  enters  the  porte-cochere. 

"  Mademoiselle  Basselin  ?"  he  interrogates  the  concierge. 

"  Au  premier,  monsieur." 

"  Perhaps  she  may  send  Delacroix  to  kick  me  out,"  muses 
Rawdon,  as  he  travels  up  the  slippery  stairs.  "  I  rather  wish 
she  would !  That  form  of  excitement  would  suit  me  to-day 
as  well  as  any  other !"  And  he  clenches  his  hands  till  the  veins 
swell  on  them  and  the  muscles  of  his  arms  stand  out,  as  though 
he  would  enjoy  any  encounter  which  should  bring  them  once 
more  into  active  service.  He  is  in  that  frame  of  mind  in  which 
a  man  rushes  into  a  fray,  or  casts  down  his  last  hundred  on  a 
losing  die,  or  makes  love  to  a  woman  towards  whom  he  is  more 
than  indifferent,  or  buys  oblivion  with  drink  or  opium.  His 
head  is  aching ;  his  hands  are  burning,  his  eyes  restless  and 
bloodshot. 

As  a  servant  carries  his  card  into  an  inner  room,  he  throws 
himself  into  a  chair  near  the  open  door,  through  which  the 
soft,  sweet  strains  of  Souci's  voice  reach  him.  There  are  no 
trills  nor  solfeggiare  flights,  but  just  that  subdued  sweetness 
which  suits  the  sacred  words  she  sings.  The  servant  does  not 
return,  nor  is  the  music  hushed  for  a  moment  (it  is  a  rule  in 
her  establishment  that  Mademoiselle  is  never  to  be  interrupted 
whilst  singing) ;  therefore  it  chances  that  Rawdon  begins  to 
hope  he  has  well  timed  his  visit,  for  the  perfect  melody  soothes 
him  like  a  miraculous  hand  laid  upon  his  hot  brow.  He  leans 
his  head  back  upon  the  cushioned  chair  and  blesses  the  impulse 
which  brought  him  here,  while  soft  and  clear  fall  the  notes 
upon  the  overstrung  nerves  and  the  fevered  brain.  His  eyes, 
wandering  slowly  over  the  room,  find  that  it  harmonizes  with 
the  music,  and  the  measure  of  his  content  is  full. 

Have  we  not  all  felt  this,  when,  world-worn,  impatient, 
weary,  we  have,  through  God's  mercy,  stumbled  into  some 
room  pervaded  by  an  artistic  woman's  soul ;  some  room  which 
is  neither  a  museum,  a  bric-a-brac  shop,  nor  a  collection  of 
priceless  gems  crowded  into  one  oppressive  parure  ?  A  room 


224  SOUCL 

which  impresses  us  as  does  a  cathedral  before  the  service 
begins. 

Cool,  large,  rather  bare  of  upholstery  than  otherwise,  with 
its  four  great  open  windows  shaded,  not  darkened,  by  their 
striped  Venetian  awnings  (air  and  light  being  indispensable  to 
Souci),  with  here  a  rare  old  cabinet,  and  there  a  single  piece 
of  bronze, — with  a  marble  Ariadne  lighting  up  one  shadowy 
corner,  and  a  couple  of  Tintorettos  and  a  Titian  making  bright 
patches  of  pure  color  on  the  neutral-tinted  walls.  On  all  sides 
groups  of  simple  home-flowers, — mignonette,  roses,  heliotrope, 
— to  which  all  one's  associations  cling, — with  tiny  fountains 
in  their  midst,  whose  cool  splash  into  their  marble  basins 
cheers  and  refreshes  them — for  flowers  have  an  acute  sensitive- 
ness, which  is  a  sort  of  soul — as  much  as  does  their  widely- 
diffused  spray. 

Over  all,  trembling  like  the  harmonious  spirit-language  of 
this  room,  the  low,  thrilling  voice,  with  its  balm-breathing 
words, — 

"  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 
Juxta  Crucem  lacrimosa, 

Dum  pendebat  Filius !  .  .  .  . 
Quis  est  homo,  qui  non  fleret, 
Matrem  Christi  si  videret 

In  tanto  supplicio  ? 
Stabat  Mater  dolorosa — dolorosa " 

Is  it  surprising  that  these  conjoint  influences  descending 
upon  Lyster's  unquiet  spirit  like  a  benediction,  nature  re- 
venges herself,  and — he  falls  asleep  ? 

The  soft  folds  of  Souci's  white  morning-dress  fall  as  noise- 
lessly as  snow-flakes  as  she  glides  across  the  Persian  rug 
which  forms  a  wide  oasis  on  the  inlaid  floor,  and  Rawdon, 
partly  conscious  of  the  cessation  of  the  music,  buries  his  head 
a  little  deeper  in  the  cushions  and — sleeps  on. 

"  He  has  fallen  asleep  to  the  sound  of  my  lullaby,"  smiles 
the  singer.  "  Well,  I  have  had  a  poorer  compliment  than 
this !  He  looks  as  if  he  had  sought  rest  vainly  for  many 
nights.  How  haggard  and  lined  his  face  is  ! — he  is  older  than 
I  thought !  And  what  a  sweet,  calm  expression, — like  that 
of  a  tired  child  who  has  at  last  dropped  asleep,  over-wearied ! 
I  liked  him  from  the  first, — it  is  a  good,  frank  face." 

Then,  after  taking  a  book  from  the  bookcase  in  the  corner, 
she  seats  herself  near  the  window  and  begins  to  read. 


LA  VRELS.  225 

Nearly  an  hour  passes, — an  hour  with  its  somniferous  influ- 
ences increasing  with  the  intensifying  warmth  of  the  sun,  and 
the  drowsy  murmur  of  the  street  below  growing  fainter,  as 
people  seek  the  shelter  of  their  houses  from  the  noonday 
heat. 

Souci  has  almost  forgotten  her  unceremonious  visitor,  when 
suddenly  the  shrill  voice  of  a  street-vendor,  who  sells  those 
little  waferish  shadows  of  cakes  called  "plaisirs,"  breaks  the 
silence  by  calling  out,  directly  under  the  window,  in  her  high- 
pitched  sing-song,  "  Voihl  les  ptaisirs,  mesdames  !  Voila  les 
plaisirs  ;  vinyt-cinq  centimes — cinq  sous  /*' 

Lyster  starts  to  his  feet,  scarlet  with  confusion,  stammering 
forth  incoherent  apologies  in  English. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Monsieur  Raw-don  !"  Souci  says, 
quietly,  advancing  towards  him  with  outstretched  hand  and  a 
smile  of  welcome.  "  I  am  glad,  also,  that  you  came  to-day ; 
this  is  much  pleasanter  than  the  crowd  and  bustle  and  chatter 
of  my  '  evenings,'  where  there  is  really  no  opportunity  for 
making  acquaintance."  Then,  motioning  him  to  resume  his 
chair,  she  seats  herself  nearer  to  him,  while  he,  recovering  his 
senses  with  an  effort,  says,  in  her  own  tongue, — 

"  I  shall  not  apologize  for  this  intrusion,  mademoiselle,  nor 
for — (the  magic  power  of  your  singing  is  answerable  for  the 
first  sweet  sleep  I  have  had  for  weeks) — since  your  gracious 
reception  would  render  an  apology  almost  an  impertinence. 
My  friend  Jamieson  has  been  my  avant-courrier ,  I  believe, 
and — I  never  attend  soire'es  !"  he  ends,  rather  contemptuously. 

"  No  ?     Yet  you  are — young  !"     She  smiles  incredulously. 

"Am  I?  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  fact.  Yes,  I  believe 
I  am — counting  by  years :  I  am  twenty-four." 

"  By  what  else  does  one  count  ?"  she  asks,  curiously, — "  by 
gray  hairs  or  crows'  feet  ?" 

"  Perhaps,"  he  says,  gloomily ;  "  or  by  the  great  strides 
which  are  taken  unawares  between  the  years ;  or  by  the  bitter 
experiences  of  which  no  calendar  is  kept — we  know  how 
much,  or  how  little,  we  have  lived  !" 

"  Yofl  speak  strangely  for  a  man  who  stands  upon  the 
threshold  of  life,"  Souci  says,  in  her  low,  vibrating  tones,  and 
with  a  grave  sadness  in  her  face.  "  I  have  felt  what  you  say, 
but  then  I — well,  I  have  lived  more  lives  in  my  short  one 
than  most  women  or  men, — but  you  ? —  Monsieur,"  she  leans 
K* 


226  SOUCI. 

forward  eagerly,  "  will  you  tell  me  frankly  why  you  came  to 
me  to-day?" 

"  I  came — to  escape  from  my  thoughts,"  Rawdon  replies, 
almost  involuntarily.  "  I  thought  that  if  it  were  possible  to 
do  so  anywhere,  above-ground,  it  would  be  here." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  seemed  to  me  to  be  different  from  other 
women  ;  because  there  is  a  certain  restful  harmony  about  you, 
— your  movements  across  the  stage  last  night  were  as  grateful 
to  me  as  your  singing ;  because  I  hate  rustle  and  bustle  and 
the  fripperies  of  society ;  and,"  he  adds,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  because  I  had  a  prophetic  divination  of  this  room." 

"You  like  it?" 

"  Like  it !  Ah !"  he  draws  a  long  breath,  "it  is  a  fit  temple 
for  you.  You  look  like  peace  incarnate  !"  his  eyes  wandering 
from  the  golden  crown  of  hair  over  the  white,  still  face  and 
soft,  shadowy  eyes,  noting  the  calm  pose  of  the  pure-robed 
figure,  the  quiet  hands  loosely  folded  on  her  lap. 

"Peace  incarnate?"  she  echoes,  with  a  wondering  look; 
"  how  I  must  have  changed  !  Monsieur,"  anxiously,  "  you 
have  not  fallen  in  love  with  me?" 

"  No,  alas  !"  he  answers,  regretfully. 

"  Have  your  tormenting  thoughts  pursued  you  here?" 

"  I  think  not.  They  have  given  me  a  respite, — brief,  but 
welcome."  His  voice  has  grown  bitter  again. 

"  Monsieur,"  Souci  says,  quite  gravely,  "  have  you  mur- 
dered anybody  ?" 

"No." 

"  Or  run  away  with  anybody's  wife  ?" 

He  shakes  his  head,  smiling  a  little. 

"You  are  not  married?"  she  asks,  with  a  comic  expression 
of  horror. 

"  I  am  not,"  he  replies,  gravely. 

The  great  gray  eyes  fasten  upon  his  their  magnetic  power, 
and  Souci's  voice  sinks  to  a  whisper.  "  Then  you  love  some- 
body?" she  asserts,  solemnly. 

"  I  have  that  curse  upon  me !"  he  answers,  fiercely.* 

"  Give  me  your  hand  again !  We  are  friends  !"  she  ex- 
claims, pressing  his  hand  cordially.  "  No  other  man  would 
have  dared  to  tell  me  this ;  they  are  such  hypocrites  !  Now 
listen.  I,  too,  love  somebody  !  Like  yours,  my  love  has 


LA  VRELS.  227 

more  of  bitter  than  of  sweet  in  it, — but — I  do  not  call  it  « 
curse :  it  is  the  blessing  of  my  life ;  it  keeps  me  from  becom- 
ing like  the  women  about  me ;  it  is  the  sacred  incense  which 
burns  night  and  day  before  me,  and  keeps  the  air  pure  which 
I  am  forced  to  breathe !  It  may  be  more  hopeless  even  than 
yours,  yet  I  would  not  part  with  it  for  any  other  love  the 
world  contains." 

Rawdon  looks  at  her  surprised  :  is  this  the  image  of  Peace, — 
is  this  the  incarnation  of  Repose  he  had  rested  his  tired  eyes 
upon  a  moment  ago? — this  woman  with  the  passion-gleaming 
eyes ;  with  the  marble  cheeks  streaked  with  a  red,  fitful  flush ; 
with  the  tranquil  hands,  clasping  and  unclasping  themselves, 
pressed  hard  upon  the  heaving  breast  ? 

Peace !  She  looks  more  like  a  Pythoness  about  to  deliver 
her  oracular  inspirations ! 

"  I  can  understand  Goethe's  Friederike's  dying  words,"  con- 
tinues Souci,  after  a  pause :  "  '  She  who  has  been  beloved  by 
Goethe  can  never  belong  to  another !'  Cannot  you  ?" 

"  Alas,  how  few  Friederikes  exist  on  earth  !"  returns  Rawdon, 
sadly.  "  They  are  as  rare  as — the  Goethes,  I  imagine." 

"  Are  they  ?  If  that  is  true,  the  others  are  scarcely  worth 
a  strong  man's  love,  much  less  his  regret,"  ventures  Souci, 
the  color  dying  out  of  her  cheek  and  the  hands  returning  to 
their  former  position  in  her  lap. 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  replies.  "  And  yet  the  regret — is  there. 
Mademoiselle,  what  would  become  of  all  the  women  in  the 
world  if  we  all  waited  to  meet  a  Friederike?"  he  adds,  lightly, 
the  feeling  that  he  has  no  right  to  bore  Souci  with  his  private 
troubles  suddenly  presenting  itself. 

"  Heaven  knows  !"  she  says,  laughing  a  little.  "  You  say  they 
are  rare — faithful  women." 

"  Rare  indeed  !"  he  says,  bitterly.  Then,  with  another  effort : 
"  I  am  afraid  we  should  be  obliged  to  pitchfork  the  rest  Into 
convents,  as  somebody  says." 

This  time  Souci  laughs  outright,  a  low,  ringing  laugh, 
which  has  so  many  notes  of  Viola's  in  its  ripple  that  llawdon's 
brow  clouds  instantly,  and  he  holds  up  his  hand,  saying,  with 
an  accent  of  pain,  "  Do  not  laugh  :  you  hurt  me." 

She  comprehends  instantly  ;  after  a  moment  of  silence,  she 
says,  earnestly,  "  Some  day,  when  we  arc  really  good  friends, 
you  will  tell  me  all  about  it  ?  Perhaps  it  would  make  you  hap- 


228  SOUCL 

pier  to  speak  to  some  one  of  your  trouble, — some  one  "whom 
you  had  grown  to  like  and  trust,"  she  concludes,  with  a  timid 
hesitation  new  to  her. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  now !"  exclaims  Lyster,  impetuously, 
suddenly  feeling  that  morbid  delight  in  inflicting  unnecessary 
pain  upon  himself  which  excites  our  wonder  at  times,  and  suc- 
.cumbing  utterly  to  the  electric  sympathy  she  embodies.  "  That 
is,  if  you  care  to  hear  a  very  stale  story,"  he  adds. 

"  I  am  listening,"  she  says,  simply,  drawing  a  little  nearer. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  rustic  innocence,"  he  begins,  with  a  short, 
forced  laugh, — "  of  Arcadian  simplicity  outvying  in  worldly 
calculation  the  carefully-weighed  maxims  of  the  most  hardened 
Mammon-worshipper  in  this  gay  city  !  Human  nature  is  the 
same,  mademoiselle,  in  palace  as  in  hovel ;  a  man's  heart  is 
equally  worthless  to  peasant  or  peei'ess  unless  presented  in  a 
golden  casket."  And  then  he  tells  her  of  his  summer-idling 
in  the  valley  between  the  Alps,  and  of  the  flower-face  which 
had  grown  into  his  heart,  and  which  was  but  the  fair  mask  of 
a  sordid,  petty  nature, — a  nature  'as  narrow  as  any  of  those 
who  bartered  themselves  daily  in  the  great  Babylons  of  earth 
for  filthy  lucre,  or  its  equivalent, — a  countess's  coronet  or  the 
strawberry-leaves. 

And  Souci  listens  with  her  eloquent  face  turned  towards 
him,  growing  strangely  tender  and  sad  as  the  narration  pro- 
ceeds ;  whilst  here  and  there  a  murmur  of  sympathy  escapes 
her,  a  glance  of  keen  interest,  or  a  low,  tremulous  sigh. 

He  is  but  a  boy,  after  all,  in  spite  of  his  grave  face  and  his 
bitter  experience,  and  he  yields  to  the  wonderful  magnetic 
power  of  this  woman,  to  whom  he  had  never  spoken  before  to- 
day, and  bares  his  heart  before  her  as  he  could  not  have  done 
to  his  life-long  friend.  Who  can  account  for  these  electric 
responses?  who  explain  this  magnetic  rapport  which  exists  be- 
tween two  persons  who  meet  for  the  first  time  ? 

"  Then  you  are  perfectly  convinced  that  she  never  loved 
you, — that  all  the  heart  she  had  to  give  was  bestowed  upon  the 
peasant-lad  you  speak  of?"  asks  Souci,  when  he  has  concluded 
with  the  words,  "  They  are  probably  married  by  this  time, 
and  living  happily  as  slugs  under  cabbage-leaves !  Mademoi- 
selle, my  romance  is  finished  ;  I  wish  you  joy  !" 

"  It  seems  to  me  so  strange  !  I  cannot  believe  it !"  she  con- 
tinues, in  her  sweet,  low  tones,  with  a  great  pity  filling  her 


LA  URELS.  229 

eyes  as  she  looks  up  at  him.     "  There  must  have  been  some 
deception — some  treachery " 

"  There  was,"  he  interrupts,  harshly ;  "  have  I  not  told  you 
how  I  was  duped  ?" 

"  Ah,  no  ;  not  by  her  !  I  cannot  believe  it !  Perhaps  the 
grandmother — or  the  lover  himself — she  may  never  have  re- 
ceived those  letters !" 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  are  too  charitable  for  the  age  we  live 
in  !  I  have  one  letter,  in  which  this  simple  village  maiden 
unconditionally  rejects  the  poor  prospect  of  a  future  which 
must  depend  upon  my  own  exertions.  No  !  Lyster  Rawdon  a 
rich  Englishman,  and  Lyster  Rawdon  a  struggling  clerk  in  a 
threadbare  coat,  are  two  separate  individuals  !"  Rising  uncere- 
moniously, he  takes  one  or  two  strides  across  the  room  and 
stops  before  the  pyramid  of  plants  in  the  window.  The  scent 
of  the  mignonette  is  making  him  giddy  with  its  bitter-sweet 
suggestions,  and  he  is  about  to  turn  away  impatiently,  when 
Souci  comes  swiftly  to  his^side.  . 

•'  What  can  be  done?"  she  says,  raising  to  his  her  wistful 
eyes.  "  I  feel  sure  this  girl  is  not  faithless.  Can  I  not  do 
anything  to  help  you  ?" 

He  looks  at  her  wonderingly.  "  Strange  !"  he  says.  "  I 
have  been  told  that  you  are  a  heartless  coquette,  a  snarer  of 
hearts  for  pastime,  a  sort  of  beautiful  vampire,  who  lures 
men  to  their  destruction  and  feeds  upon  their  heart's  best 
blood  !  And  you  come  to  me  with  a  womanly  sympathy  and 
offer  to  help  me  !  Is  this  one  of  your  wiles?" 

Her  eyes  have  sunk  under  his  feverish  gaze.  "  I  am  so 
sorry  for  you — and  her  !"  she  says,  quietly.  "  It  must  be  such 
intolerable  pain  to  love  one  who  is — unworthy,  or  who  loves 
another!  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  I  could  never  endure  that!" 

Before  another  spring-time  had  blossomed  the  lilacs  in  the 
Tuileries,  these  words  recurred  to  Lyster  Rawdon  and  to 
Souci  with  the  force  of  a  verified  prediction. 

"  What  can  it  matter  to  you,  mademoiselle  ?"  Rawdon 
goes  on.  •'  What  can  it  matter  to  any  one  that  one  more 
lite  has  been  stricken  by  a  woman's  falseness, — that  another 
man  has  been  betrayed  by — '  a  lie  that  eats,  and  drinks,  and 
walks'  ?  There  are  many  such  amorig  us !" 

"It  does  matter  to  me  very  much!"  she  replies,  eagerly. 
'  May  I  not  write  to  this  Alpine  village'and  make  inquii 

20 


230  SOUCL 

Rawdon  stares  silently  out  of  the  window  over  the  mignon- 
ette, whose  insidious  fragrance  he  has  been  snuffing  up  reck- 
lessly through  his  nostrils  into  his  brain ;  then  he  turns  upon 
her  fiercely  :  "  Bah  !  mademoiselle  !  have  I  not  told  you  that 
that  story  is  finished?"  Then,  ashamed  of  his  discourtesy, 
he  adds,  more  quietly,  "  There  is  nothing  to  be  done, — the 
affair  is  over.  Were  she  the  only  woman  on  God's  earth,  she 
would  not  exist — so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  tell  me  that  which  stirs  my  heart  to 
the  core,  if  I  may  do  nothing  to  help  you, — if  it  is  all  hope- 
less?" asks  Souci,  with  a  bewildered  look. 

"  Because," — here  Lyster's  voice  softens  suddenly  at  the 
tempting  of  a  demon, — "  because,  mademoiselle,  I  hoped  that 
you  would  do  something  for  me !  My  love  is  dead, — you 
may  help  me  to  bury  it.  It  is  all  that  can  help  me  now !" 
His  blue,  glittering  eyes  search  her  face. 

"  Are  you  quite,  quite  sure  it  is  dead  ?"  she  asks,  regret- 
fully. . 

"  Dead  !  Yes  !  It  died  two  years  ago  !  It  is  only  the 
barest,  emptiest  skeleton  which  remains  to  inter  !  When  that 
is  done,  I  shall  be  at  peace  !"  he  ends  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"And  you  wish  me  to "  begins  Souci,  still  puzzled  by 

this  wild  talk,  and  scarcely  able  to  gather  from  it  whether  he 
is  grieved  or  glad. 

"  To  make  me  fall  in  love  with  you  !"  supplements  Rawdon, 
recklessly.  "  Yes  ;  will  you  do  it  ?" 

There  is  a  full  minute's  pause,  during  which  Kawdon  looks 
out  over  the  flowers  again,  awaiting  with  patience  her  reply, 
and  during  which  a  change,  sudden,  subtle,  complete,  trans- 
forms the  true-hearted,  sympathetic  woman  at  his  side  into  the 
wariest  coquette,  the  wiliest  siren  who  could  be  i'ound  that 
day  between  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Frozen  Sea. 

Souci's  better  nature  had  been  so  far  aroused  by  this  young 
man's  sad  story  that  her  less  noble  instincts  had  slumbered 
quietly,  until  stirred  into  renewed  activity  by  the  daring  pro- 
posal he  had  made :  he  would  enter  the  lists  armed  cap-a-pie 
against  her,  in  the  wake  of  the  confession  he  had  just  made 
to  her  !  So  be  it. 

Easy  conquests  are  of  every-day  occurrence ;  this  promises 
to  be  difficult, — it  is  a  sore  temptation. 

Lyster  cannot  see  the  eyes  under  their  lowered  lids,  when 


LA  URELS.  231 

he  turns  at  last  from  the  window  surprised  at  her  long  silence, 
but  he  can  see  the  red  streak  marking  once  more  the  white 
cheek. 

"  She  is  deliberating  whether  the  game  would  be  worth  the 
candle,"  he  sneers,  inwardly.  "  Will  you  try,  mademoiselle  ? 
I  do  not  say  you  wiil  find  me  a  docile  subject,  or  that  yon  irill 
succeed"  he  adds,  bluntly ;  "but  I  should  be  glad  to  make  a 
ibol  of  myself  about  you,  if  you  will  let  me  !" 

The  insinuation  of  a  doubt  presses  down  the  scale.  Souci 
raises  her  eyes,  lambent  with  the  dare-devil  light  which  has 
caught  the  fire  of  his  own  recklessness,  and  which  promise 
acquiescence  even  before  the  lips,  curved  into  their  most  be- 
wildering smile,  have  whispered,  "  I  shall  try  to  make  you  as 
unhappy  as  I  can  !" 

At  this  moment  Signore  Valdini  is  announced,  and  Rawdon. 
after  one  more  hand-clasp,  finds  himself,  with  a  strangely- 
dazed  feeling,  getting  mechanically  into  his  cab  and  driving  off 
under  the  burning  June  sun. 

He  meets  Jamieson  at  dinner ;  but  that  astute  diplomatist 
finds  it  impossible  to  draw  from  his  companion  the  faintest 
allusion  to  his  determination  to  pay  a  visit  out  of  rule. 

"  He  has  been  awfully  snubbed,  poor  fellow,  and  is  awfully 
cut  up  about  it !  Well,  I  told  him  so  ;  he  thinks,  with  that 
face  of  his,  he  can  do  anything  !"  And  he  presses  the  cham- 
pagne on  his  friend,  hoping  to  raise  his  spirits. 

It  is  not  required,  however,  for  an  unnatural  exhilaration 
possesses  him  since  that  last  long  look  into  those  baleful  eyes. 
Night  brings  him  sleep,  but  sleep  again  dream-laden,  which  is 
not  rest. 

All  the  fair-haired  vixens,  whose  wiles  unseated  the  reason 
of  their  victims  in  days  gone  by,  pass  in  review  before  him  ; 
every  gold-tressed  sorceress  history  has  prated  about  through- 
out the  centuries  flaunts  her  locks  around  his  pillow :  never 
did  theflavus  vertex  weave  itself  in  and  out  of  a  man's  feverish 
fancies  with  subtler  skill. 

From  the  stately  Boadicea  and  the  "  yellow-haired  Dido" 
down  to  the  fair-locked  Borgia  and  the  guileful  Stuart,  they 
spread  their  sunny-meshed  snares  about  him  until  the  morning. 

Out  of  this  mental  phantasmagoria  Souci  glide?,  luring  him 
to  her  side  with  those  magnetic  eyes,  drawing  lorth  his  inner- 
most thoughts  by  the  exquisite  sympathy  of  voice  and  glance 


232  .  SOVCL 

and  touch.  Strange,  that  in  this  "  dream  of  fair  women"  the 
innocent  face  he  once  deemed  the  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone 
upon,  has" no  place. 

Only  proud-stepping,  imperious-willed,  regal-crowned  women 
smile  their  bedevilling  smiles,  and  wave  their  white  arms  mad- 
deningly before  him.  The  tender  Alpine  violet  shrinks  out 
of  sight  in  such  ungenial  company. 

Thus  does  the  first  dose  of  the  "  antidote"  work  like  poison 
in  Rawdon's  blood. 

And  Souci  ? 

I  doubt  if  her  calm  slumbers  are  troubled — or  her  "  fell 
purpose"  shaken — by  any  "  compunctious  visitings  of  nature." 
The  mobile  lips  smile  triumphantly  as  she  dreams  of  conquest. 

For  although  the  mysteries  of  censer-swinging  and  of  certain 
genuflections  had  been  duly  explained  to  her,  as  well  as  the 
necessity  of  confession  (were  these  not  as  much  parts  of  this 
young  heathen's  education  as  were  syntax  and  the  use  of  the 
globes?),  at  heart  Souci  is  as  utter  a  pagan  as  on  that  gray  dawn 
when  she  escaped  from  Mere  Ursule  in  the  Rue  des  Acacias. 
The  necessity  to  adore  even  then  asserted  itself  in  her  nature, 
and  she  laid  the  awful  symbol  on  her  breast  in  an  involuntary 
outcome  of  homage  towards  a  Being  of  whose  existence  she 
was  profoundly  ignorant.  That  necessity  still  exists;  but 
although  the  eyes  of  her  understanding  have  been  directed 
towards  the  effulgent  light  of  Christianity,  she  prefers  to  set 
up  her  own  idol  and  worship  after  her  own  fashion.  The 
strongest  feeling  of  which  she  is  capable — her  love  for  Tonio 
— is  her  religion.  In  remembrance  of  him  all  her  good  in- 
stincts are  fostered  and  encouraged :  for  his  sake  her  evil  im- 
pulses are  held  in  check.  She  is  loyal  to  him  in  thought  and 
deed ;  keeping,  as  she  said,  her  life  clean  and  her  heart  pure 
as  a  fitting  shrine  for  his  image.  Her  religion  is  not  that 
taught  in  the  gospel  preached  by  the  apostles,  yet  I  fear  there 
are  barren  lives  even  in  cloister,  that  bow  before  just  such 
shrines  as  hers. 

But  although  Souci  observes  the  Decalogue,  and  refrains 
from  language  profane  or  ungrammatical,  although  she  is  true 
to  Tonio,  and  dispenses  her  charities  with  lavish  hand,  it  does 
not  follow  that  those  strong-lived,  noxious  weeds  which  flour- 
ished during  her  childhood  should  be  uprooted  and  no  seed  of 
them  remain.  Alas!  no.  The  spirit  which  had  crushed  the 


LAURELS.  233 

lumbering  beetle  under  foot  is  rife  within  her  still.  She  has 
lived  to  see  her  own  prophecy  realized,  and  has  emerged  from 
obscurity  with  the  sufferings  of  her  childhood  unforgotten — 
unforgiven ;  with  her  hand,  frail  yet  powerful,  against  every 
man's. 

"  Why  should  they  not  suffer  in  their  turn  ?"  she  asks  her- 
self, as  she  ensnares  in  her  "  strong  toil  of  grace"  all  who 
approach  her ;  holding  them  at  her  feet  with  a  wanton  last  of 
cruelty  which  stirs  no  pulse  within  her :  a  lust  of  cruelty  more 
merciless  than  that  which  was  wont  to  kindle  into  demoniac 
light  the  eyes  of  Roman  dame  as  she  gloated  over  the  blood- 
stained arena  where  a  tortured  fellow-being  awaited  her  signal 
for  the  coup  de.  grace.  Never  did  delicate  hand  turn  thumb 
downward  with  more  woful  significance,  or  less  nerve-quiver, 
than  does  this  remorseless  Souci's. 

Since  the  typical  siren  of  Troy  had  Deiphobus  treacherously 
murdered,  there  has  not  lacked  a  strain  of  blood-thirstiness  in 
the  sorceresses  of  later  ages.  It  is  not  written  that  Mary  shed 
tears — or  failed  to  take  another  lover — when  Rizzio  was  done 
to  death  in  Holyrood,  even  though  her  vengeance  took  mur- 
derous form. 

And  in  the  great  gallery  of  Fontainebleau,  does  not  the  blood 
of  the  slain  Monaldeschi  cry  to  Heaven  against  that  other 
brilliant  anomaly, — that  complex  mystery  who  bewitched  the 
world, — that  fascinating  compound  of  wisdom  and  folly,  of 
passion  and  ferocity,  of  cold  selfishness  and  fiery  self-sacrifice, 
— the  Norse  witch,  Christina  of  Sweden  ? 


20* 


BOOK  V. 

VIOLA. 
CHAPTER  I. 

IN   THE  RUE  DU  BAG. 

"Vous  6tes  belle:  ainsi  done  la  moitie" 
Du  genre  humain  sera  votre  ennemie!" — VOLTAIRE. 

A  MONTH  has  passed  :  it  is  the  last  week  of  July,  and  Paris 
is  supposed  to  be  deserted. 

All  those  who  are  able  to  purchase  shade  and  jollity  and 
cool  breezes  whilst  the  sun  holds  riotous  sway  in  Leo,  have  fled 
to  the  various  eaux,  or  spas,  or  campagnes  provided  by  Nature 
for  their  refreshment.  Souci  is  singing  men  mad  in  St.  Peters- 
burg, from  whence  she  will  visit  the  various  great  cities  of  the 
Continent,  her  professional  engagements  treading  closely  upon 
one  another's  heels.  Lyster  Rawdon  and  Noyes  Jamieson  were 
not  the  only  ones  who  thought  the  occasion  opportune  for  a 
trip  to  Russia. 

Paris  looks  dull  to-day  ;  the  "  feeble  frivolities  of  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli"  depress  one  in  the  noonday  glare.  Unfortunate 
pedestrians  crawl  at  a  snail's  pace,  close  in  the  shadow  of  the 
houses,  shielding  their  wilted  faces  as  best  they  may  with 
weakly-poised  sun-umbrellas. 

Even  the  fiacre-drivers  are  somnolently  indifferent  to  busi- 
ness, while  -their  drowsy  steeds,  with  their  poor  noses  confined 
in  feed-bags,  do  not  appear  to  have  sufficient  energy  to  whisk 
the  flies  off  their  agonized  backs  with  their  despondent,  droop- 
ing tails.  It  is  a  day  when  one  longs  with  a  yearning  sicklied 
o'er  by  hopelessness,  for  a  breath  fresh  from  the  meadows  or 
the  hills ;  a  day  when  the  stifling  dust,  mingled  with  the  odor 
of  roasted  chestnuts  or  the  all-pervading  garlic,  grows  uneo- 
234 


VIOLA.  235 

durable ;  when  the  lilac-scent  of  spring-time  and  the  sweet  rose- 
breath  of  later  days  have  been  drowned  out  of  memory  by  the 
evil  odors  which  make  even  this  Paradise  unsavory  during  the 
dog-days. 

On  the  sixth  floor  of  a  house  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  two  girls 
sit  as  close  to  the  window  as  possible,  gasping,  while  they  work, 
industriously.  One  of  them,  a  lean,  sallow-faced  hunchback, 
is  trying  her  keen  young  eyesight  in  the  broidering  of  a 
sumptuous  robe  de  bapteme  in  which  the  scion  of  a  noble 
house  is  to  be  admitted  within  the  pale  of  the  Church  ;  the 
other — a  girl  whose  face  is  so  pure  and  sweet  that,  with  the 
sunlight  touching  her  golden  hair  into  an  aureole,  it  appears 
like  unto  that  of  a  pictured  saint — is  mending  with  rare  skill 
a  mantle  of  antique  point,  which  on  the  portly  shoulders  of 
a  marchioness  had  suffered  demolition  in  a  crowded  rout  at 
the  Tuileries  a  few  evenings  before. 

Dainty  work  for  fingers  trembling  with  the  weakness  which 
comes  from  long  fasting !  How  strangely  out  of  place  it  looks, 
this  rich,  exquisite  wonder  of  toil,  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  win- 
dow-seat of  the  bare  attic-room  !  How  bitter  is  the  irony  sug- 
gested by  its  fabulous  value  amid  the  wretchedness  and  poverty 
of  its  surroundings ! 

The  girls  speak  rarely ;  they  must  not  waste  the  daylight 
in  idle  talk  ;  there  will  be  time  enough  for  that  when  the  sun 
has  set,  for  work  like  this  cannot  be  done  by  the  light  of 
tallow  dips. 

Occasionally  they  crane  their  necks  forward  and  draw  in  a 
longer  breath  of  the  sultry,  tainted  air,  which  half  suffocates 
their  mountain-fed  lungs.  Now  and  again  they  raise  loving 
eyes  to  each  other's  pale  faces  and  force  a  tender  smile  of 
encouragement,  which  is  the  most  pathetic  of  failures. 

Stitch,  stitch,  stitch. 

At  last  the  sun  bids  the  world  good-night  and  retires  be- 
hind his  gorgeous  crimson  curtains.  The  girls,  with  a  weary 
sigh,  fold  up  their  work  and  put  it  carefully  aside. 

Lighting  a  candle,  Viola  draws  forth  the  little  pine  table, 
while  Nina  anxiously  searches  the  cupboard  for  a  remnant  of 
their  last  poor  meal.  It  seems  to  have  grown  smaller  since 
mid-day,  that  tiny  loaf;  and  surely  there  had  been  some  butter 
left! 

"  Yv'here  is  the  butter,  Viola?" 


236  SOUCL 

"  We  have  had  no  butter,  dear,  since  yesterday." 

"Ah !"    And  they  sit  down  to  sup  on  dry  bread  gratefully, 

for  they  are  in  the  great,  magnificent  city  of  Paris,  where 

bread  is  so  common — and  so  scarce ! 

Immediately  upon  their  arrival  in  Paris,  four  week  ago, 
the  girls  had  taken  a  carriage  at  the  station,  and  had  driven 
directly  to  the  hotel  where  Viola  confidently  expected  to  find 
Miss  Crawford. 

To  their  horror,  they  were  informed  that  the  English  family 
had  started  two  days  previously  for  Switzerland,  the  heat 
proving  intolerable  in  Paris.  The  governess,  of  course,  had 
accompanied  them.  Had  they  left  no  address  ?  None.  Per- 
haps mademoiselle  would  like  to  look  at  rooms ;  being  a 
friend  of  the  famille  Hartman,  she  should  have  them  on  very 
reasonable  terms. 

Half  choking  with  disappointment,  Viola  had  assured  the 
obliging  proprietor  that  her  means  would  not  admit  of  such 
splendor  as  that  of  which  she  caught  glimpses  through  the 
open  door,  and  begged  him  to  direct  her  to  a  quiet  boarding- 
house  where  they  could  rest  for  the  present.  He  had  given 
them  an  address,  and  they  had  re-entered  the  carriage  with 
heavy  hearts,  feeling  sadly  forlorn  and  desolate  in  the  big, 
bustling  city. 

The  quiet  boarding-house  had  proved  too  expensive  for  them, 
and,  after  much  vexatious  changing  of  quarters,  they  had  at 
last  rented  this  little  attic  room  in  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

Indefatigable  had  been  their  efforts  to  obtain  employment : 
they  were  unknown,  without  guarantee  for  honesty,  and  one 
of  tfiem  was  beautiful.  Alas  !  wherefore  should  I  recapitulate 
the  disappointments,  the  discouragements,  the  treachery,  which 
beset  the  work-seeker  in  a  vast  metropolis  ? 

Do  we  not  all  know  after  what  fashion  Paris  breaks  its  but- 
.  terflies  upon  the  wheel  ? 

The  slender  sum  of  money  and  few  trinkets  had  all  disap- 
peared before  the  deft  fingers  of  these  poor  girls  could  prove 
their  ingenuity :  nothing  remained  to  be  disposed  of  for  bread 
and  shelter  save  the  cairngorm  brooch  and — the  locket  of 
Roman  gold ! 

At  this  desperate  crisis  their  persevering  assiduity  bad  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  a  member  of  a  large  mercantile  firm 


VIOLA.  237 

in  a  fashionable  quarter.  He  had  employed  them,  appraised 
their  work,  aud  promised  future  supplies.  Only  three  days 
ago  had  this  ray  of  hope  penetrated  the  darkness  of  their 
despair. 

"It  is  quite  finished,  the  baptismal  robe,  is  it  not?"  asks 
Viola,  as  they  share  their  humble  loaf  to  the  last  crumb. 

"  Yes ;  is  it  not  lovely  ?"  cries  Nina,  unfolding  the  long 
skirt,  and  gazing  rapturously  at  the  lilies  and  rose-buds  em- 
broidered upon  its  delicate  cambric.  "  Twenty  francs,  he  said, 
for  this  !  How  much  is  that,  Viola,  in  soldi  ?" 

"Oh,  a  great  deal, — a  fortune,"  replies  Viola,  smiling; 
"  with  the  thirty  I  am  to  receive  for  sewing  up  this  rent,  we 
shall  be  wealthy  !"  Then,  her  face  becoming  suddenly  grave, 
"  How  good  God  has  been  to  us,  Nina !  What  would  have 
become  of  us  had  it  not  been  for  this  prospect  of  steady 
work?  Do  you  thank  Him  in  your  prayers,  piceiula ?" 

"  No — I  have  not  yet,"  hesitates  the  hunchback.  "  I 
thought  it  was  so  cruel  to  disappoint  you  so  many  times — so 
cruel — I  could  not  forgive  Him  !'' 

"  Nina  !  Never  say  such  a  thing  as  that  again  !  Ah,  you 
have  hurt  me — more  than  all  the  disappointments  put  together  ! 
Oh,  my  little  friend,  never  doubt  His  tender  mercy !  I  would 
indeed  despair  were  I  to  lose  my  perfect  trust  in  Him  !"  And, 
walking  to  the  window,  the  thin,  pale  face  turns  upwards  with 
a  mute  prayer  for  stronger  faith  upon  its  quivering  lips. 

Nina's  arms  steal  about  the  frail  figure,  as,  with  a  half-sob, 
she  whispers,  "I  shall  never  say  it  again,  Viola,  never;  no 
matter  how  cruel  He  is  to  us, — if  it  hurts  you  !  See,  I  will 
kneel  down  here  now,  and  say — anything  you  bid  me  say !" 
Sinking  on  her  knees,  she  raises  her  folded  hands  and  glistening 
eyes  devoutly. 

A  sad  smile  breaks  through  the  tender  gravity  of  Viola's 
face,  as  she  looks  down  upon  her  little  companion.  "  Your 
thanks  must  come  straight  from  your  own  heart,  Nina  uiia.  to 
be  acceptable  to  Him,"  she  says,  while  she  gently  caresses  the 
waves  of  dark  hair  which  hide  the  child's  deformity.  "  Y.  ;i 
must  first  love  Him  with  all  your  heart,  and  then  evt-ry  thought 
towards  Him  will  be  a  prayrr  or  a  thanksgiving."  There  en- 
sues a  silence  alter  these  words,  each  girl  busy  with  her  thoughts, 
and  the  twilight  shadows  without  growing  deeper.  At  la»t 
Viola  arouses  herself,  aud,  with  an  effort  at  cheerfulness,  says, 


238  SOUCI. 

"  Come,  put  on  your  hat.  poverina  ;  we  are  forgetting  how  late 
it  is,  and  we  have  our  work  to  carry  home,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  sighs  the  hunchback,  wearily  ;  "  we  have  our 
work  to  carry  home,  and  I  am  so  tired — so  tired.  Must  I 
thank  Him  for  that,  I  wonder?"  she  murmurs  to  herself,  as 
she  seeks  her  hat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  cupboard. 

The  distance  is  formidable,  and  they  are  both  almost  ex- 
hausted by  the  time  they  reach  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines. 
As  they  emerge  from  the  establishment  by  which  they  are 
employed  they  feel  somewhat  cheered  by  the  possession  of  the 
three  golden  coins  which  they  have  undeniably  earned. 

Holding  each  other  tightly  by  the  hand,  they  are  hurrying 
on  their  homeward  way,  when,  passing  under  the  eifulgent 
glare  of  a  jeweller's  window,  their  faces  are  distinctly  revealed 
to  the  passers-by. 

At  this  moment  their  steps  are  abruptly  arrested  by  a  young 
man,  who,  impetuously  approaching  them,  cries  out,  "  Great 
Heaven!  Is  it  possible ? — at  last !  and  here  !" 

Viola,  who  has  shrunk  back  with  a  faint  cry  of  alarm,  now 
raises  terrified  eyes  to  his  face  and  joyfully  recognizes — Tonio  ! 
Tonio,  alive  and  well ;  his  dark  eyes  flashing  with  happiness 
at  this  meeting ;  his  hands  outstretched  with  trembling  eager- 
ness. 

"  Four  long  weeks  have  I  been  searching  for  you  !''  he  ex- 
claims, devouring  her  with  his  gaze,  as  though  he  fears  she 
may  even  now  vanish  from  his  sight.  "  Four  whole  weeks ! 
aided  by  the  police-force,  which  promised  me  success  in  half 
the  time  !  Where  have  you  hidden  yourself?  And  why  have 
you  moved  so  often  ?  Speak  to  me,  Viola,"  he  entreats,  "  that 
I  may  know  you  are  not  a  spirit." 

Pale  as  a  spirit  and  half  bewildered  by  this  sudden  encounter, 
Viola  experiences  a  strange  hysterical  desire  to  laugh  and  cry 
at  the  same  time.  Nina  watches  her  anxiously :  "  We  are  in 
the  Rue  du  Bac ;  it  is  far  from  here,  and  Viola  is  very  tired  ; 
and — see !  people  are  stopping  to  stare  at  her,"  cries  the 
hunchback,  angrily. 

It  is  true :  the  singular  beauty  of  the  young  girl  and  her 
evident  agitation  have  attracted  quite  a  little  group  of  sympa- 
thizing gallants  in  the  vicinity  of  the  jeweller's  window. 

"  Pardon  me  !"  stammers  Tonio.  "  I  forgot  everything  but 
my  joy  in  finding  you  again !"  Then,  drawing  Viola's  arm 


VIOLA.  239 

through  his,  they  walk  a  few  paces,  while  she  tries  to  control 
her  trembling  limbs  and  find  strength  to  speak  in  her  ordinary 
voice. 

"  How  did  you  know  we  were  in  Paris?"  she  asks,  at  last. 

His  face  changes.  "  I  arrived  in  Vogogna  the  very  day  you 
left  it !"  he  replies,  in  sad  tones.  "  Ah,  Viola,  you  will  never 
know  what  a  blow  it  was  to  me  to  hear  that  you  had  fled  from 
your  safe  valley-home  to  this  great,  terrible  city  !"  He  pauses 
abruptly,  as  if  the  thought  were  too  painful  to  him,  and  looks 
down  uppn  her  with  anxious  tenderness. 

"  My  father !"  whispers  Viola,  tremulously,  her  worn  face, 
from  which  the  flush  of  joy  has  faded,  causing  Tonio's  heart 
to  contract  with  sudden  pain  as  he  notes  its  transparent  pallor 
and  the  heavy-circled  eyes,  and  perceives  the  altered  lines  of 
the  figure,  the  trembling  of  the  slender  arm  resting  upon  his 
own.  "  He  is  well  ?"  continues  Viola,  her  voice  growing 
sharp  from  vague  fear  at  his  silence.  "  He  does  not  fret  about 
me?" 

Tonio,  with  infinite  gentleness,  takes  in  his  the  thin,  un- 
gloved hand  lying  on  his  arm.  "  Your  father  is  well,  Viola ;  I 
shall  tell  you  all  about  him  presently — when  we  are  quietly 
driving  home."  Here  he  hails  a  passing  cab,  and,  placing  the 
two  girls  therein,  directs  the  driver  to  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

''  Why  are  you  in  that  dismal  quarter?"  he  asks,  as  he 
seats  himself  opposite  to  them. 

"  Because  it  is  much  less  expensive,  and — we  are  not  rich," 
returns  Viola,  smiling,  as  she  leans  gratefully  back  upon  the 
unluxurious  cushions  of  the  fiacre.  From  her  corner  she 
contemplates  Tonio  with  ever-increasing  wonder  and  admira- 
tion, while  he,  with  madly-beating  heart,  is  obliged  to  exert  all 
his  self-control  to  prevent  his  throwing  himself  at  her  feet  and 
breaking  forth  into  all  manner  of  incoherent  exclamations  of 
rapture  a-nd  pain  and  thankfulness. 

"  How  changed  he  is  !"  thinks  Viola  ;  "  how  improved  in 
every  way  !  I  cannot  realize  that  it  is  really  Tonio  !" 

"  Your  father  has  told  me  how  you  were  driven  from  your 
home  by  that  scoundrel  Barbesi,"  begins  the  young  man,  as 
they  roll  swiftly  towards  the  old  city ;  "  who,  by  the  w.-iy,  was 
in  no  danger  whatever, — his  illness  was  hall'  feigned  fin-  tin- 
purpose  of  terrifying  you — and  this  little  one;"  with  a  kind 
glance  at  Nina;  "  he  recovered  immediately  alter  your  flight." 


240  SOUCL 

(Ah,  Dio  !"  murmurs  the  hunchback,  with  a  shudder,  slipping 
her  hand  into  Viola's  with  a  sympathetic  squeeze.)  "  Before 
he  left  Vogogna  there  was  a  terrible  scene  between  him  and 
the  Frau,  from  which  she  has  never  rallied.  No  one  knows 
•what  threats  he  used  to  frighten  her  into  discovering  your 
address  in  Paris,  or  what  the  miserable  coward  said  or  did 
during  that  interview.  Heinrich  was  away  in  the  hills  with  his 
violin,  and  only  returned  to  find  that  she  had  taken  to  her  bed, 
from  which  she  assured  him  she  would  never  rise  again.  She 
gave  him  her  keys,  and  indicated  the  spot  where  her  money 
was  concealed,  then  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  has  not 
spoken  since." 

"  Poor  grandmother!"  Viola's  tears  are  falling  fast.  "  Is 
she  ill,  Tonio  ?  does  she  suffer  ?  Oh,  I  must  return  to  them  ! 
Who  is  there  to  keep  the  house  and  to  care  for  them  ?" 

"  Viola,  you  must  not  go  back  there  !"  Tonio  says,  firmly. 
"  Your  father  dreads  nothing  more  than  that  you  should  be 
again  persecuted  by  this  Barbesi,  who  keets'a  watchful  eye  on 
Vogogna,  fancying  that  you  will  return  !  Heinrich  was  coming 
himself  to  Paris  to  find  you  and  warn  you  to  keep  out  of  his 
reach,  but  he  was  willing  to  intrust  me  with  his  wishes — which 
I  am  sure  you  will  respect.  Besides,"  he  adds,  more  cheer- 
fully, "  they  are  not  alone ;  that  good  Teresina  is  with  them, 
and  will  not  leave  your  grandmother  as  long  as  she — is — ill. 
Your  father  has  been  most  kindly  cared  for  by  the  neighbors, 
and — he  is  never  seen  without  his  violin  now !"  Viola  is 
silent ;  her  heart  is  aching  at  the  picture  of  the  solitary  old 
man  pouring  out  his  sorrows  in  wild,  sweet  strains  to  the 
echoing  hills.  "  Do  not  cry,  Viola  mia,"  whispers  Tonio,  un- 
able longer  to  bear  the  sight  of  her  pale  face  wet  with  tears. 
"  Do  not  cry !  You  could  do  nothing  for  them,  were  you 
with  them  now,  but  add  to  his  trouble.  It  will  not  be  very 
long  before  he  can  come  to  you,  for  the  Frau  grows  weaker 
day  by  day, — she  can  scarcely  be  induced  to  take  enough 
nourishment  to  sustain  life, — and  she  is  very  old,  you  know." 

They  are  in  the  Rue  du  Bac  now,  and,  as  Tonio  assists 
them  to  descend  at  the  entrance  of  a  tall,  gloomy-locking 
building,  he  arranges  to  call  for  them  the  next  morning  early 
to  take  them  out  to  Versailles,  where  they  can  spend  a  long, 
restful  Sunday  in  the  open  air  under  the  great,  shady  trees  of 
the  palace-grounds. 


VIOLA.  241 

"  I  shall  thank  God  to-night,  Viola !"  gasps  Nina,  as  they 
drag  themselves  breathlessly  up  the  steep  staircase.  "  I  shall 
thank  Him  for  the  day  under  the  green  trees  we  are  to  have 
to-morrow  !  Ah,  Viola,  He  is  taking  pity  on  us  at  last !" 

And  her  companion,  smiling  through  grateful  tears,  thanks 
Him  too. 


CHAPTER  H. 

A   JOYFUL   SURPRISE. 

"  Then  we  talked — oh,  how  we  talked !    her  voice  so  cadenced  in  the 

talking, 

Made  another  singing  of  the  soul!     A  music  without  bars; 
While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands,  humming  round  where  we  were 

walking, 

Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet  as  skies  about  the  stars. 
In  her  utmost  lightness  there  is  truth — and  often  she  speaks  lightly ; 
And  she  has  a  grace  in  being  gay,  which  even  mournful  souls  approve; 
For  the  root  of  some  grave,  earnest  thought  is  understruck  so  rightly, 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving  flowers  above!" 

MRS.  BROWNING. 

THE  day  spent  so  delightfully  out  of  the  hot  glare  and  dust 
and  din  of  the  city,  in  the  shaded  allies  of  the  magnificent  old 
park,  is  but  the  prelude  to  many  another  equally  pleasant  ex- 
cursion to  the  various  charming  environs  of  Paris. 

Tonio,  pleading  his  loneliness  in  this  strange  place  where  lie 
knows  nobody,  urges  Viola  and  her  companion  to  give  him 
every  moment  that  can  be  spared  from  their  daily  toil ;  ami  ><> 
gently  persistent  is  he,  that  they  find  themselves  every  even- 
ing out  of  Paris  and  dining  together  in  some  sweet,  quiet  spot 
within  easy  access  by  rail  of  the  city. 

Perhaps  these  are  the  very  happiest  hours  of  Tonio's  life, 
when,  with  Viola  on  his  arm,  he  strolls  slowly  through  the 
winding  walks  of  Vincennes,  along  the  terraces  of  St.  Cloud, 
or  by  the  silvery  lake  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  whilst  she 
listens  with  lireuthless  interest  to  the  recital  of  his  adventures 
during  the  past  two  years. 

Never  had  De.Mlemonu  given  more  rapt  and  flattering  attcn- 

L  21 


242  SOUCI. 

tion  to  the  Moor's  narrations  than  does  Viola  to  the  description 
of  Tonio's  meeting  with  his  father  ;  his  enlistment  in  the  army ; 
the  battles  he  has  seen  ;  the  promotion  he  has  won.  And  Gari- 
baldi, how  she  delights  in  hearing  of  him  !  How  her  delicate 
face  flushes  when  he  tells  her  of  the  adoration  of  the  men  for 
their  general ;  of  the  devotion  shown  to  him ;  of  the  wild  en- 
thusiasm of  the  peasantry,  who  shower  upon  him  flowers,  bless- 
ings, cheers  mingled  with  irrepressible  sobs  of  grateful  joy,  all 
along  the  line  of  march  !  Then  her  cheek  pales  again,  and  her 
eyes  fill  with  quick  tears,  as  he  speaks  of  the  brigade  of  boys, 
who  had  fought  like  young  tigers  at  Milazzo,  and  whose  ranks 
had  been  so  cruelly  decimated ;  of  the  monastery  which  had 
been  hastily  converted  into  a  hospital,  where  these  lads  lay 
mutilated,  dying  and  dead,  but  with  the  spirit  of  the  South 
glowing  within  them  to  the  last  breath.  One  little  fellow,  in 
whom  he  had  taken  special  interest,  only  twelve  years  of  age, 
had  been  stricken  down,  and  as  Tonio  passed  through  the  hos- 
pital he  had  called  out  to  him,  cheerily,  "  Hola,  Signore  Benotti, 
nearly  all  of  our  brigade  were  wounded  or  killed  !  Our  colonel 
says  that  no  one  can  say  after  this  that  the  Sicilians  never 
fight !"  The  child  had  sunk  back  exhausted  after  these  words, 
and  lay  pallid  and  wan,  his  white  uniform  stained  with  blood 
and  mire,  with  an  ice-bladder  on  the  stump  of  his  right  arm ! 
Then  with  swift,  graphic  touches  he  describes  to  her  the  night- 
assault  of  the  fort  of  Altafiumara ;  the  crossing  of  the  strait 
by  starlight,  under  the  very  jaws  of  the  Bourbon  men-of-war, 
over  the  invisible  bridge  of 'boats,  which  had  sprung  from 
Garibaldi's  ingenious  brain ;  of  the  two  hundred  and  ten  picked 
men  who  had  passed  over  it,  alighting  in  the  midst  of  fourteen 
thousand  of  the  enemy  ! 

And  often  he  speaks  of  his  father's  increasing  affection  for 
him  ;  of  his  lavish  generosity ;  of  his  delight  at  his  late  ap- 
pointment on  his  chief's  staff.  He  tells  her  of  the  delightful 
hours  which  they  had  gleaned  from  amid  their  stirring  camp- 
life,  which  had  been  devoted  to  study  and  mental  culture  of  a 
high  order.  Those,  Tonio  whispers,  were  his  happiest  hours, 
for  in  them  he  strove  to  raise  himself  nearer  to  her. 

At  this  Viola  turns  away,  blushing  and  frowning  and  smiling 
all  together,  but  feeling-  too  glad  and  content  to  utter  the 
reproof  he  deserves. 

With  the  tact  born  of  unselfishness,  Nina  always  refuses  to 


VIOLA.  243 

accept  Tonio's  disengaged  arm,  and  occupies  herself  during 
their  rambles  in  gathering  wild  flowers  to  carry  back  to  their 
dreary  little  room,  or  in  finishing  some  bit  of  embroidery 
which  she  is  thankful  to  be  able  to  do  in  the  sweet-scented 
open  air,  with  the  green  grass  under  her  feet  and  the  song  of 
the  birds  in  her  ears. 

Thus  a  fortnight  passes, — a  fortnight  during  which  Viola's 
cheek  has  regained  something  of  its  delicate  rose-tint  and  the 
oval  of  her  face  has 'recovered  its  pure  curve;  during  which 
Nina  has  grown  strong  and  cheerful  once  more,  and  Tonio, 
"  glad  to  the  brink  of  fear,"  has  watched  with  awed,  reverent 
eyes  the  girl,  who,  in  her  sweet,  self-reliant  womanliness  and 
purity,  appears  to  him  but  little  lower  than  the  angels.  Could 
he  help  basking  in  the  sunlight  of  his  present  happiness,  even 
though  he  felt  that  it  cast  not  one  single  ray  of  hope  into  his 
future  ?  Do  human  lips  ever  turn  from  the  merciful  nepenthe 
fate  offers,  even  if  it  be  but  the  alleviation  of  bitter  pain  for  a 
day's  span  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 
"NINA!  NINA!  WE  SHALL  NEVER  SEE  HIS  FACE  AGAIN!" 

"  Une  larme  a  son  prix,  c'est  la  sceur  d'un  soupir. 
Avec  deux  yeux  bavards  parfois  j'ainae  a  jaser, 
Mais  le  seul  vrai  langage  au  monde  est  un  baiser!" 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 

BUT  the  day  of  parting  comes  apace. 

"  I  had  taken  these  little  rooms  for  a  couple  of  months," 
Tonio  is  saying,  as  he  walks  up  and  down  the  platform  of  the 
station  with  Viola,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  train  which  is 
to  bear  him  southward.  "  And  since  my  orders  have  come  so 
much  sooner  than  I  had  expected,  I  have  arranged  with  my 
landlady — who  is  a  good  old  soul — that  my  sister  and  her 
friend  shall  occupy  them  until  my  return.  You  will  not  refuse 
mo  this  comfort,  Viola;  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  mounting 
that  dreadful  staircase  in  the  dreary  Rue  du  Bac !" 

"  How  good  you  are,  Tonio  !  How  kind  and  thoughtful ! 
But " 


244  SOUCL 

He  holds  up  his  hand,  with  a  smile :  "  No  buts,  Viola;  think 
of  all  I  owe  to  you  and  Heinrich, — my  life  to  him,  to  you  all 
that  is  worth  living  in  me !" 

She  is  silent,  the  tears  brimming  in  her  eyes.  Presently  a 
moan  breaks  from  her.  "  Ah,  Tonio  !  I  cannot  let  you  go  ! 
What  shall  we  do  without  you  !"  The  instant  the  words  have 
left  her  lips  she  realizes  what  she  has  done !  Fain  would  she 
recall  them  by  whatever  suffering  to  herself;  but  it  is  too  late! 
It  is  as  though  a  hand  had  suddenly  closed  upon  the  throbbing 
heart  of  the  man  on  whose  arm  she  leans ;  the  color  forsakes 
his  cheek,  and  all  his  strong  frame  is  shaken  with  the  effort 
to  maintain  his  composure,  to  continue  to  exercise  towards 
this  girl — over  whom  his  soul  yearns  madly — the  calm  affec- 
tion, the  tranquil  forbearance,  which  he  had  not  permitted 
himself  to  transgress,  even  by  a  look,  throughout  these  happy 
weeks.  ' 

The  very  helplessness  of  her  position,  the  innocent  trust  she 
had  placed  in  him,  had  forbidden  his  taking  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  press  his  love  upon  her. 

But  now,  at  the  moment  of  parting,  with  the  doubt  that  he 
shall  ever  see  her  sweet  face  again  (for  has  not  every  parting 
a  foretaste  of  the  bitterness  of  the  final  separation  ?),  with  that 
irrepressible  sob  in  his  ear,  and  the  clinging,  tremulous  arm 
pressed  against  his  bursting  heart,  he  would  have  been  more, 
or  less,  than  man,  had  he  been  able  to  restrain  the  anguish  of 
his  farewell. 

Broken  words  of  tenderness — entreaties  for  her  remem- 
brance— her  prayers— her  love — burst  from  his  eager  lips,  glow 
from  the  dark  eyes,  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  poor  girl,  who 
answers  but  by  tears  ! 

"  Give  me  these,  my  beloved  !"  he  whispers,  at  last,  touch- 
ing a  tiny  bunch  of  her  favorite  flowers ;  "  their  perfume  will 
seem  like  part  of  you  ;  it  will  be  with  me  through  the  long 
hours  of  this  day " 

Quickly  her  trembling  fingers  detach  the  violets  from  her 
belt  as  the  shriek  of  the  approaching  train  is  heard  faintly  in 
the  distance. 

He  places  them  reverently  in  an  inside  pocket  of  his  coat, 
from  whence  their  faint,  delicious  fragrance  tortures  him 
throughout  his  lonely  journey. 


VIOLA.  245 

A  few  moments  later,  Nina,  sitting  afar  off,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  long  platform,  rejoices  greatly  when,  as  the  engine 
rushes  deafeuingly  into  the  station  and  the  waiting-room  emp- 
ties itself  into  the  rail  way -carnages,  she  sees  Tonio  clasp  to  his 
heart  for  an  instant  the  form  of  her  friend  before  he  springs 
into  the  last  carriage  of  the  already  moving  line. 

"  Come  away,  Viola,"  she  whispers,  twining  her  arms  about 
the  statue-like  being,  who  stands  with  tearless,  dilated  eyes 
gazing  into  the  void  left  vacant  by  the  swift-speeding  train. 
"  Come  away  ;  the  carriage  is  waiting,  Viola ;  come  !" 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming,"  she  replies,  moving  mechanically  to- 
wards the  fiacre,  which,  by  Tonio's  orders,  conveys  them  di- 
rectly to  his  cheerful  little  appartenient  d  Tent)  esol,  on  the  Rue 
Neuve  St.  Augustin. 

Not  one  word  does  Viola  speak,  as  they  rattle  through  the 
gay,  busy  thoroughfares ;  white  and  tearless  she  sits,  holding 
the  hunchback:s  brown  little  hand  in  hers  with  painful  force. 

Only  after  they  reach  the  tiny  sitting-room,  where  they  find 
their  few  belongings  already  removed  from  the  Rue  du  Bac, 
and  Nina  has  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  Viola,  was  there  ever  any  one 
so  kind  and  generous  as  Tonio !"  she  casts  herself,  face  down- 
ward, on  the  little  couch,  with  the  bitter  cry,  "  Nina,  Nina,  we 
shall  never  see  his  face  again  !" 

In  vain  her  little  friend  strives  to  soothe  and  comfort  her ; 
in  vain  she  uses  every  argument  suggested  by  her  matter-of- 
fact  reasoning, — Viola  cannot  be  convinced  that  this  presenti- 
ment which  possesses  her  is  but  the  consequence  of  unusual 
nervous  excitement  and  will  disappear  with  the  agitation  and 
exhaustion  of  the  morning. 

The  day  is  far  spent  before  she  has  recovered  sufficiently 
her  usual  calm  to  receive  a  visit  from  the  landlady  to  whose 
care  Tonio  had  confided  her  and  Nina. 

Madame  Dubois  is  a  vivacious  little  woman,  with  a  round 
rosy  face  and  a  pair  of  shrewd,  kindly-looking  eyes,  which 
appraise  Viola's  worth  with  their  first  keen  glances  and  are 
satisfied  therewith. 

"  Monsieur  your  brother,"  she  begins,  after  the  preliminary 
curtsy,  "  bade  me  ascertain  whether  anything  further  would 
be  required  in  these  rooms  for  mademoiselle's  use,  and  if  so,  I 
am  to  procure  it.  Monsieur  sent  in  this  piano  yesterday,  and 
the  jardiniere,  of  plants,  and  these  books  and  some  IIIUMC. 

21* 


246  SOUCL 

Mademoiselle's  luggage  arrived  this  morning.  I  have  had  it 
placed  in  the  bedroom."  All  this  the  voluble  little  creature 
pours  forth  with  scarcely  a  pause  for  breath. 

Viola,  mustering  her  self-possession, — her  innate  delicacy 
preventing  any  exhibition  of  surprise, — murmurs  her  thanks 
and  the  assurance  that  the  rooms  seem  perfectly  furnished  and 
very  comfortable. 

"  At  what  hour  will  mademoiselle  please  to  dine  ?"  chirps 
forth  madame,  delighted  with  the  young  lady's,  charming  man- 
ner. "  Monsieur  ordered  dinner  for  to-day,  and  if  mademoi- 
selle desires,  I  am  to  provide  her  meals  for  her  daily.  Monsieur 
thought  it  would  be  more  agreeable." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replies  Viola,  wishing  the  audience  at  an  end. 
"  It  will  be  far  better,  if  you  will  be  so  good." 

"  Bon  !  cest  entendu  !  And  now  I  shall  have  dinner  served 
at  once,  for  mademoiselle  has  had  no  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette, 
and — la  pauvre  petite  lossue  looks  famished,"  she  adds,  lower- 
ing her  voice. 

This  arouses  Viola,  who,  taking  Nina  by  the  hand,  says, 
gently,  "  I  am  very  selfish  and  forgetful,  carissima  ;  you  are 
pale,  and  hungry  too,  I  am  sure  !" 

Then  they  go  into  the  little  bedroom  adjoining,  to  bathe 
their  tear-stained  faces  and  smooth  their  ruffled  hair,  and  they 
both  break  down  once  more  at  the  further  proof  of  Tonio's 
tender  thought  which  awaits  them  there. 

Side  by  side  stand  two  new  portmanteaus,  bearing  the  names 
of  the  two  girls  upon  their  brass  plates. 

While  Viola  turns  away,  overcome  by  this  most  loving 
thoughtfulness,  Nina,  drawing  from  her  pocket  a  couple  of  keys 
Tonio  had  pressed  into  her  hand  without  further  explanation 
than  "  Keep  them  ;  they  are  Viola's,"  proceeds  to  open  the 
lids  and  discover  the  treasures  within. 

Here  they  find,  laid  in  order,  complete  trousseaux  of  tasteful, 
pretty  garments,  which  could  have  been  chosen  and  suggested 
only  by  a  woman's  knowledge  of  the  intricacies  of  her  sex's 
toilet.  "  And  he  said  he  had  not  a  single  friend  in  Paris  !" 
ejaculates  Nina,  wiping  the  grateful  tears  from  her  eyes  that 
she  may  see  more  clearly  all  these  beautiful  things. 

At  this  Viola  is  stirred  into  vindicating  Tonio's  veracity. 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  Nina ;  there  are  establishments  in  Paris, 
like  the  Maison  Lyounaise,  for  iustance,  wher£  the  Contefcsa 


VIOLA.  247 

had  orders  filled  and  sent  to  her  without  any  advice  or  assist- 
ance from  outside.  They  undertake  these  things  and  fulfil 
the  largest  orders  to  perfection.  Tonio  never  could  tell  an 
untruth !" 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  that,  Viola  !"  cries  Nina,  remorseful ; 
"  do  not  imagine  I  doubted  his  word !" 

Viola  kisses  her  reassuringly,  and  soon  after  they  sit  down 
to  their  cosy  little  dinner,  and  the  evening  wears  away  in 
quiet  talk. 

Long  after  Nina  is  soundly  sleeping,  Viola  paces  up  and 
down  the  sitting-room  in  sore  unrest. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  love !  have  I  been  disloyal  to  you,  in 
thought,  or  word,  or  deed  !  Has  this  poor  boy's  madness  won 
from  me  one  gleam  of  aught  but  pity  ?  Am  I  doing  my  love 
a  wrong  in  accepting  the  kindness  of  another  to  whom  I  can 
make  no  return  ?  0  God,  help  me  to  see  clearly  the  right, 
and  to  do  it !" 

These  moans  break  from  her  heart  at  intervals,  until,  ex- 
hausted by  the  emotions  of  the  day,  she  lays  her  weary  head 
upon  her  pillow  and  falls  asleep,  with  one  hand  clasped  tightly 
on  her  breast  over  a  medallion  of  Roman  gold. 


BOOK  VI. 

SOUCI. 
CHAPTER    I. 

"  WHO    IS   THAT  ?" 

"  0  popular  applause !  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet,  seducing  charms? 

»  *  *  *  *      .       *  * 

Praise  from  the  shrivelled  lips  of  toothless,  bald 

Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 

And  craving  poverty,  and  in  the  bow 

Respectful  of  the  smutched  artificer, 

Is  oft  too  welcome  and  may  much  disturb 

The  bias  of  thy  purpose.     How  much  more 

Poured  forth  by  beauty,  splendid  and  polite, 

In  language  soft  as  adoration  breathes !" — COWPER. 

IT  Is  the  evening  following  the  7th  of  September,  1860,  the 
day  of  the  triumphant  entry  of  Garibaldi  with  a  handful  of 
men  into  Naples,  when  the  Liberator,  named  Dictator,  had 
been  welcomed  with  cries  and  tears  of  wild  delight  by  over 
three  hundred  thousand  people  assembled  about  his  quarters 
in  the  Palazzo  d'Angri:  the  day  when  women  had  fainted  from 
excess  of  joy,  and  strong  men  had  sobbed  at  sight  of  their 
deliverer ! 

The  air  yet  vibrates  with  that  deafening  roar  of  greeting, 
"  Viva  Galibardo  !  Viva  T Italia  !  Una,  nna,  una,  viva  /" 
The  fact  that  the  cannons  of  all  the  fortresses  are  pointed  at 
the  rejoicing  city,  and  that  fourteen  thousand  Bourbon  soldiers 
are  under  arms  in  their  vicinity,  chills  in  no  degree  the  de- 
lirious excitement  of  the  people,  suddenly  delivered  from  the 
tyrant's  yoke. 

An  open  carriage,  wending  its  way  slowly  through  the  streets 
thronged  with  monks,  women,  soldiers,  citizens  in  carriages  and 
on  foot,  carrying  lighted  torches,  and  shouting  their  evvive,  is 
248 


SOUCI.  249 

checked  in  its  course  by  the  passage  of  a  triumphal  car  in  the 
form  of  a  ship,  drawn  by  eight  white  oxen,  gayly  decorated 
with  scarlet  ribbons.  Out  of  this  huge  structure  arises  from 
hundreds  of  human  voices  the  Garibaldi  Hymn,  accompanied 
by  various  musical  instruments. 

During  nearly  fifteen  minutes  the  barouche,  in  which  are 
seated  a  lady  and  two  gentlemen,  and  the  monstrous  ship  re- 
main locked  by  the  pressure  of  the  crowd,  while  high  and 
clear,  soaring  above  this  not  unmelodious  chorus — like  the  pure 
trill  of  a  nightingale  above  the  voices  of  lesser  songsters — 
rises  the  powerful  soprano  of  the  great  prima-donna,  leading 
the  glorious  Hymn ! 

The  tumult  grows  wilder :  the  people  burst  into  tears,  and 
embrace  each  other  like  madmen.  Souci's  name  mingles  with 
the  vivas,  whilst  once  more  the  horses  are  dragged  from  her 
carriage  and  hundreds  of  eager  hands  struggle  for  a  share  in 
the  honor  of  conveying  her  to  the  theatre  whither  she  is 
bound. 

Standing  erect,  her  noble  figure  antique  in  its  grand  outlines, 
her  proud  white  face  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  her  great  eyes 
luminous  with  the  contagion  of  their  joy ;  through  her  parted 
lips  the  stirring,  martial-sounding  strains  lifting  up  every  soul 
present  upon  their  soaring  solemnity ; — verily  it  is  not  strange 
that  this  half-crazed  people  see  in  her  the  apotheosis  of  their 

liberty,  and  wellnigh  worship  her ! 

*  *          "    *  *  *  *  * 

It  has  been  a  grand  night  at  the  San  Carlo :  a  ni<jht  that 
will  be  long  remembered  by  the  audience  which  packs  its  every 
tier  to  suffocation.  Not  only  has  it  witnessed  the  appearance 
of  the  Star  of  Song  upon  its  firmament,  but  it  has  sat  and 
gazed  its  fill  into  a  shadowy  box  where  the  Liberator,  sur- 
rounded by  his  staff,  seemed  to  shrink  from  observation  and 
the  wild  acclamation  which  has  greeted  his  entrance. 

At  the  close  of  the  performance,  whilst  the  Garibaldi  Hymn 
is  being  sung  by  the  entire  troupe,  a  tiny  note  is  brought  to 
the  door  of  the  Patriot's  box  and  handed  to  him. 

Outwardly  calm  as  usual,  but  inwardly  doubtless  stirred  to 
tin-  heart's  core,  the  lines  swim  before  his  eyes  as  he  tries  to 
peruse  them.  Leaning  hack  in  his  chair,  he  says  to  the  neaiv.-t. 
of  his  aides,  with  a  smile,  "  After  twenty-five  days  spent  on 
horseback,  with  the  sky  for  canopy  and  the  earth  for  couch, 
L* 


250  SOUCI. 

one's  eyesight  is  not  as  clear  as  usual.  Read  it,  amico  mio, 
and  tell  me  its  burden." 

The  hand  of  the  young  officer  to  whom  he  has  spoken 
trembles  slightly  as  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  signature  "  Souci," 
beneath  the  three  or  four  pencilled  lines. 

"  Bah  !"  he  exclaims,  mentally,  "  what  has  come  over  me, 
to  dream  of  such  impossibilities? — that  miserable,  ugly  little 
girl  transformed  into  this  glorious  creature  !  Impossible  !  Yet 

— the  name — those  wonderful  eyes Ah  !  am  I  drivelling 

again  ?"  Then  he  bends  his  head  to  the  ear  of  his  beloved 
general :  "  It  is  from  the  Signorina  Souci,  the  prima-donna  : 
she  begs  the  honor  of  your  company  at  supper  to-night, — your 
Excellency's  company,  with  your  staff." 

"  We  are  all  too  weary, — eh,  Antonio  ?"  asks  Garibaldi, 
carelessly. 

"  Weary  !     Ah,  no ;  not  I,  for  one  !" 

"  Then — we  accept,"  is  the  answer,  which  is  promptly  re- 
mitted to  the  bearer  of  the  note. 

As  the  carriage  containing  Garibaldi  and  his  favorite  aide 
draws  up  before  the  gate  of  the  Hotel  della  Brettagna,  Tonio's 
heart  is  throbbing  so  violently  that  he  delays  a  moment  in 
the  court-yard  under  the  pretext  of  changing  his  white  gloves. 

He  mounts  the  staircase  slowly,  tugging  nervously  at  a  re- 
fractory glove-button,  and  wondering  vaguely  at  his  unusual 
perturbation. 

Souci's  salons  are  brilliantly  lighted,  and  the  young  man 
recovers  his  sang-froid  and  is  ready  to  smile  at  the  absurdity 
of  his  conjecture,  as  he  perceives  the  regal-looking  woman,  in 
her  sweeping  white  robes,  with  a  single  star  of  diamonds 
flashing  amid  the  coils  of  yellow  hair,  receiving,  with  the 
gracious  condescension  of  a  queen,  the  score  of  favored  guests 
whom  she  has  invited  to  sup  with  her. 

She  is  chatting  gayly  with  the  animated  group  about  her, — 
among  whom  Garibaldi  is  conspicuous  by  his  gentle,  almost 
melancholy  gravity, — when  Tonio,  approaching  undauntedly,  is 
presented  by  his  chief. 

At  this  instant  supper  is  announced,  and,  after  a  few  words 
of  welcome,  Souci  lays  her  hand  upon  the  general's  arm,  and 
is  about  to  turn  away  towards  the  supper-room,  when  suddenly 
her  movement  is  arrested  ;  the  cordial  smile  dies  swiftly  upon 
her  tremulous,  parted  lips ;  the  faint  streak  of  color,  called  by 


sorrr.  251 

excitement  and  the  evening's  triumph  into  her  white  chock, 
fades  utterly  ;  while  her  eyes,  dilated  wildly,  seek  those  of  her 
companion  :  "  Who — who  is  that  ?"  she  whispers,  in  a  voice 
strangely  strained  and  altered.  "  Who  is  he — the  officer  you 
presented  to  me  last? — quick  !  his  name!"  Her  breath  comes 
in  quick  pants ;  her  face,  so  radiant  a  moment  ago,  has  grown 
haggard ;  her  hands  clutch  tightly  Garibaldi's  sleeve. 

His  mild,  calm  eyes  look  down  into  hers  with  amazement: 
'•  What  wonderful  creatures  these  women  are !"  he  reflects, 
while  he  answers,  cheerily,  "  His  name,  signorina,  is  Benotti ; 
he  is  one  of  my  best-loved  soldiers, — il  Capitano  Benotti. — 
a  good  and  brave  lad !  His  father  is  also  an  officer  and  a  dear 
friend  of  mine " 

"  His  father  /"  murmurs  Souci,  who,  making  a  supreme 
effort,  has  outwardly  recovered  her  self-command  and  is  com- 
pelling her  limbs  to  move  mechanically  towards  the  supper- 
room.  "His father!  Oh,  great  God!  can  it  be?  or  am  I 
going  mad  ?  Tonio  !  Tonio  !" 

A  wild  desire  to  call  out  his  name,  to  follow,  and  cast  her 
arms  about  him,  while  she  stifles  her  cries  and  sobs  of  joy  on 
his  breast,  fills  her  whole  being.  Trembling  from  head  to  foot 
she  moves  silently  down  the  long  salon  and  seats  herself  auto- 
matically at  table.  By  the  time  her  guests  have  attacked  the 
first  course  the  powerful  will  has  asserted  its  supremacy,  and 
their  hostess  is  calm,  imouciunfe,  brilliant  as  ever. 

Never  has  she  enacted  the  role  of  siren  more  effectively 
than  to-night ;  never  has  she  seemed  so  gay,  so  bewitching,  so 
nearly  beautiful.  Her  pulses  are  throbbing  madly  ;  her  heart 
is  full ;  for  a  long  time  she  dares  not  single  out  by  a  glance 
that  dark,  well-remembered  face  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

Wine  flows,  and  the  talk  grows  merrier.  The  strong  con- 
straint which  Souci  has  found  necessary  to  exercise  over  her- 
self acts  like  the  curb  upon  a  spirited  horse :  it  seems  to  bring 
out  every  grace  and  charm  and  daring  manoeuvre  of  which  she 
is  capable,  while  deep  in  the  mystic,  shadowy  eyes  lurks  a 
dangerous  devil  with  which  it  will  not  be  safe  to  trifle. 

Raoul  Delacroix  watches  her  anxiously,  with  the  pain  at  his 
heart,  which  has  come  to  be  perpetual  now,  intensified  by  a 
dread  foreboding.  His  faee  grow*  worn  and  sad  as  ho  .-its 
al'MracU-dly  coiiUmplating  his  handiwork;  wondering  if  an 
early  ending  in  the  Paris  streets  would  not  have  been  more 


252  SOUCI. 

merciful  than  any  future  possible  to  this  reckless  creature, 
who,  surrounded  by  these  bronzed  and  bearded  soldiers,  wields 
the  sceptre  of  her  paramount  fascination  with  beguilements  as 
variable,  and  as  perilous,  as  ever  entranced  the  senses  of  war- 
like Antony  and  the  rest  of  that  "  mailed  host"  who  lay,  long 
ago,  at  the  feet  of  Egypt's  queen. 

"  What  will  be  the  end  of  it  all  ?"  he  asks  himself,  wearily. 
"  I  could  almost  wish  the  end  would  come ;  the  torture  of 
waiting  for  it  grows  unendurable  !"  And  he  shivers  slightly 
as  a  burst  of  acclamation  greets  a  witty  repartee  of  their  hostess. 
"  Is  she  perfectly  heartless,  cruel,  and  selfish  ?"  he  wonders. 
"  Am  I  as  blind  as  all  the  rest,  to  her  faults,  and  is  she  indeed 
but  a  perfect  piece  of  mechanism  without  a  soul  ?" 

For  this  man,  who  worships  her  with  the  most  perfect  of  all 
loves, — a  love  that  can  be  patient,  faithful,  and — dumb, — 
knows  as  little  of  the  subtle  intricacies  of  Souci's  complex 
nature  as  one  of  these  strangers  who  are  ready  to  kneel  at  her 
feet  to-night. 

And  yet  he  loves  her.  He  has  allowed  her  to  creep  into 
his  lonely  heart  and  make  her  kingdom  there ;  he  is  simply 
her  loyal  subject,  ready  at  any  time  to  give  up  bis  life  to  her: 
content  to  guard  her,  to  watch  over  her  interests,  to  keep  the 
secret  of  his  love  untold.  He  has  done  what  the  rare  ones  of 
the  earth  glory  in  doing, — given  his  all,  without  hope  of  re- 
turn ;  and,  like  them,  he  will  suffer  his  sharpest  pang  in  the 
moment  when  he  ceases  to  sacrifice  himself.  For  that  moment 
must  come  sooner  or  later.  The  yoke  a  man  deliberately  places 
upon  his  neck  when  he  allows  a  hopeless — or  an  unworthy — 
passion  to  absorb  every  faculty  of  his  soul  will  inevitably  gall 
and  torture  him  in  the  end,  to  such  purpose  that  he  will  cast 
it  aside  in  utter  desperation,  even  if  in  so  doing  he  lacerate 
himself  incurably. 

And  Lyster  Kawdon  (he,  as  well  as  the  infatuated  Jamie- 
son,  has  followed  in  Souci*s  wake,  and  arrived  in  Naples  in 
time  for  her  debut  there) — Lyster  Eawdon  also  looks  on  with 
curiosity,  mildly  tempered  by  pique,  that  some  other  than 
himself  has  the  power  to  draw  forth  every  reserve  force  of  the 
enchantress,  and  a  sort  of  amused  vexation  at  the  coolness 
with  which  she  has  ignored  his  own  existence. 

"  Who  is  it?"  he  asks  himself,  as  his  eyes  travel  from  one 
to  the  other  of  her  guests ;  "  which  of  these  falcon-eyed, 


SOUCI.  253 

swarth-visaged  Italians,  who  look  ready  to  poniard  one  another 
at  her  bidding.  Not  Garibaldi :  he  looks  weary  and  a  trifle 
bored.  I  fancy  even  she  would  despair  of  rivalling  the  Phrygian- 
capped,  free-footed  goddess  he  worships.  Nor  is  it  one  of  those 
fellows  at  whom  she  sends  her  most  dazzling  glances,  and  whom 
she  is  bedevilling  with  those  smiles  of  hers.  More  likely  that 
shy,  rather  awkward  man  who  never  looks  towards  her,  and 
whom  she  seems  to  devour  with  her  eyes  whenever  she  thinks 
no  one  is  observing  her.  Yes,  it  is  he  ;  but — wherefore  ?  I 
saw  the  general  present  him.  They  have  never  met  before  to- 
night. He  appears  to  be  a  quiet,  dull  sort  of  chap 

Good  God! " 

At  this  moment  Tonio  turns  his  face  full  in  the  glare  of  the 
wax-lights  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and,  with  a  smile,  addresses 
his  companion.  Rawdon,  who  sits  on  a  line  with  him,  higher 
up,  recognizes  him  instantly. 

For  a  few  moments  the  table  seems  to  spin  round,  the  can- 
delabra dance  up  and  down,  and  the  pyramid  of  flowers  appears 
to  topple  over  in  all  directions,  while  Lyster  Rawdon,  shaken 
suddenly  out  of  the  semi-torpor  which  had  wellnigh  benumbed 
memory  and  conscience,  awakes  once  more  to  the  keen  pain 
which  the  sight  of  this  man  stirs  within  him.  Suddenly 
Viola's  face  appears  vividly  before  him, — Viola's  face  as  he 
had  seen  it  that  day  on  the  hill-side,  with  its  delicate  rose- 
tints,  and  innocent  eyes  looking  out  from  the  shadowy  rich- 
ness of  the  loosened,  gold-brown  hair,  as  with  a  shy  smile  on 
her  lips  she  tenders  her  love-token  to  Tonio  !  He  hears  the 
drowsy  hum  of  insect-life, — the  ripple  of  water, — the  faint,  far- 
away notes  of  Heinrich's  violin.  He  smells  the  honeysuckle 
wreathing  the  rustic  porch,  and  the  balmy-sweet  breath  of  the 
mignonette  stealing  through  the  bowed  lattice  of  his  sick-room. 
(livat  H.-avcii  !  what  is  this  strange  giddiness  which  overcomes 
him?  He  must  get  out — out  into  the  open  air — away  from 
this  stifling  heat  and  glare,  this  wild  confusion  of  talk  and 
laughter 

A  general  uprising  of  the  guests  and  the  bustle  of  departure 
afford  an  opportunity  for  escape,  of  which  Rawdon  unceremo- 
niously avails  himself.  Striding  from  the  room,  he  seeks  the 
ncaivst  exit,  ai.d.  turning  into  a  quiet  street,  gratefully  bares 
his  ln-ad  to  the  dewy  fn->liii.'.-s  <J  tin-  night. 

"  I  am  sick  to  death  of  it  all !"  he  exclaims,  passionately, 
22 


254  SOUCI. 

pushing  back  the  clustering  hair  from  his  throbbing  temples ; 
"sick  of  all  this  wearisome  damnableness  called  life.  There  is 
no  good  in  it — nothing  satisfying  or  enduring — except  what  we 
may  not  have.  The  memory  of  that  is  enduring  enough,  haunt- 
ing one  like  a  curse  !  Oh,  God  !"  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  bril- 
liant heavens,  "  why  are  so  many  of  us  born  ?" 

Two  hours  later,  Rawdon  seeks  his  hotel,  feeling  somewhat 
wearied,  but  with  less  bitterness  and  more  peace  in  his  heart. 
The  exquisite  beauty  of  the  night  had  touched  his  spirit  into 
harmony  and  poured  into  his  soul  a  portion  of  its  beneficent 
calm. 

There  are  few  natures  insensible  to  such  influences :  they 
cause  the  single  cord  to  vibrate  which  still  unites  us  to 
heaven. 

Rawdon's  bitter  discontent  has  its  root  in  the  conviction 
that  somewhere — somehow — there  is  a  better  existence  possi- 
ble to  him,  if  only  he  knew  how  to  seize  upon  it,  even  while 
he  fritters  and  wastes  the  hours  which  might  be  spent  in  the 
search  of  it. 

"  What  I  am  and  what  I  might  have  been  !"  are  the  hinges 
upon  which  the  gates  of  a  man's  soul  often  stand  ajar,  ready 
for  the  entrance  of  the  tempter. 

"  The  devil  tempts  us  not ;  'tis  we  tempt  him, 
Beckoning  his  skill  with  opportunity." 

Something  of  this  is  forcing  itself  upon  Lyster  Rawdon's 
comprehension  during  his  solitary  night-walk  under  the  solemn 
stars ;  and  now,  before  he  goes  within,  he  looks  up  once  more 
to  where  they  are  slowly  paling  at  the  approach  of  dawn,  and 
there  is  a  hopefulness  born  of  pure  resolve  upon  his  face. 
To-day  he  will  quit  Naples.  This  shall  be  his  first  step  to- 
wards renouncing  the  life  of  idle  pleasure  of  which  he  is  heart- 
ily ashamed.  He  has  resolved  to  return  to  England  and  the 
duties  which  there  await  him. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  shall  find  happiness — or,  at  least,  for- 
getfulness — in  them  at  last,"  he  thinks,  as  he  watches  the 
light  growing  brighter  behind  Vesuvius,  where  the  brave 
young  Day  is  already  struggling  to  escape  from  the  dusky 
arms  of  the  bejewelled  Night. 


SOUCI.  255 


CHAPTER  II. 

"HE   IS  VERT   PROUD   AND   SHY,    JEANNE." 

MIRANDA. — "I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of." 
FKRDINAND. — "  Wherefore  weep  you  ?" 
MIRANDA. — "  At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give :  and  much  less  like, 

What  I  shall  die  to  want."  .  .  . 

"  HE  is  very  proud  and  shy,  Jeanne, — oh,  so  proud  and 
dignified  and  cold  !  But  I  shall  fiud  a  way  to  tame  him  ;  I 
shall  have  him  back  soon — never  fear !" 

"  Of  whom  does  mademoiselle  speak  ?"  demands  Jeanne,  as 
she  draws  the  brush  slowly  down  the  waving  yellow  mane  and 
rests  her  puzzled  eyes  upon  Souci's  face  in  the  glass. 

"  Of  whom  ?"  with  a  low,  happy  laugh.  "  Of  my  king  ! 
Listen,  Jeanne  !"  Here,  without  turning  her  head,  she  gently 
draws  the  two  sunburnt,  toil-hardened  hands  around  her  neck, 
and,  disengaging  the  brush,  holds  them  firmly  under  her  white 
chin,  while  she  raises  her  eyes  to  those  wondering  ones  in  the 
glass  and  speaks  in  her  lowest,  most  vibrating  tones : 

"  He  is  changed,  and  yet  not  changed  ;  he  is  taller  and 
grander,  but  the  sweet,  serious  look  is  in  his  face  still ;  his 
cheek  is  the  same  clear  brown, — his  eyes  are  as  full  of  fire, — 
his  hair  is  as  dark  and  full  of  rich  waves  as  when  you  tried  in 
vain  to  brush  them  smooth, — his  chin  is  cleft " 

"  Tonio  /"  bursts  irrepressibly  from  Jeanne's  lips,  and  her 
tightly-held  hands  twitch  involuntarily  to  raise  themselves  in 
pious  wonder. 

"  Ay,  Tonio  1  Ah,  Jeanne,  the  world  is  too  small  to  contain 
me  to-night !  Hold  me,  or  I  shall  fly  away  somewhere  !  Such 
happiness  as  mine  gives  wings  to  the  soul !  Ah  !"  And  she 
hugs  herself  more  closely  with  the  brown  arms  of  honest 
Jeanne,  who  is  still  too  stupefied  to  utter  more  than  ejacula- 
tions of  surprise. 


256  SOUCL 

"  But,  alas !"  sighs  Souci,  with  a  comic  frown  of  distress, 
"  he  does  not  remember  me — he  does  not  know  me — he  will 
not  know  me !" 

"  Perhaps,  mam'selle,"  ventures  Jeanne, — "  perhaps  (ah, 
Dieu !  to  think  of  it ! — that  lad  here,  in  Naples !) — he  has 
not  recognized  you " 

"  Am  I  so  changed,  then  ?  I  must  have  been  very  much 
like  what  I  am  now  when — when  he  left  me.  I  was  always 
yellow  and  odd-looking,  and  had  the  eyes  of  an  owl.  No, 
no,  my  good  Jeanne,  he  knows  me  perfectly — but " 

"  Mam'selle  is  so  far  above  him — he  does  not  dare ' 

"  Above  him !"  cries  Souci,  indignantly.  "  Never  think 
such  a  thought,  my  friend !  Even  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
he  is  my  equal  ;  and  thou  knowest,  Jeanne,  how  much  better 

and  nobler  and  higher  he  always  was  than  I "  Her  voice 

breaks  in  an  hysterical  sob,  and,  turning  quickly,  she  clasps 
her  arms  about  the  substantial  waist  of  her  humble  confidante 
and  gives  way  to  a  wild  fit  of  weeping. 

The  good  woman  is  puzzled ;  but  a  moment  ago  these  eyes, 
now  drenched  in  tears,  were  sparkling  with  happiness ;  these 
lips,  now  trembling  with  agitation,  were  smiling  at  her  in  the 
glass !  It  is  all  a  mystery  to  Jeanne,  this  swift  revulsion  of 
feeling ;  but  she  pats  and  caresses  and  soothes  the  bowed 
head  on  her  ample  bosom,  as  she  had  often  done  in  the  old 
days  of  Souci's  childhood,  when  some  frantic  fit  of  passion 
required  her  tender  exorcism! 

"  Thou  art  weary  and  overdone,  my  child  !"  she  says,  after 
the  sobs  have  abated  somewhat  in  violence.  "  It  is  almost 
morning,  and  thou  hast  not  slept  an  hour.  Come  !  lie  down, 
and  I  will  prepare  one  of  my  best  little  tisanes  to  calm  thy 
nerves,  which  have  been  sorely  tried !  A  little  prayer  to  the 
Ion  Dieu  (blessed  be  His  holy  name)  and  a  tiny  cup  of  tisane 
will  soon  restore  thee,  my  angel."  All  this  time  she  is  busily 
preparing  Souci  for  bed,  where  she  soon  falls  into  the  dream- 
less sleep  of  exhaustion,  unsustained  either  by  the  little  prayer 
or  by  the  tiny  dose  of  tisane. 


SOUCI.  257 


CHAPTER  III. 

BAFFLED. 

IRAS. — "  Royal  Egypt !    Empress  !" 

CLEOPATRA. — "  No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman  !  and  commanded 

By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks, 

And  does  the  meanest  chares !" 

IT  is  "  the  flower  and  consummation  of  the  day," — the 
most  dangerous  hour  of  the  whole  tropic-sunned  twelve  :  the 
hour  when  the  orange-  and  myrtle-groves  pour  forth  their  rich 
incense  to  the  evening ;  when  the  quaint  refrain  of  the  fisher's 
barcarolle  floats  shoreward  on  the  breeze ;  when  the  restless 
wavelets  caress  the  shore  with  coy,  musical  murmurings,  and 
the  tender  calm  of  Nature  in  her  hour  of  rest  floods  the  soul. 

"  The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration.'' 

Two  figures  are  strolling  a  little  apart  from  the  rest  of  their 
party, — which  is  grouping  itself  more  or  less  picturesquely 
about  the  ruins  of  temple  or  amphitheatre,  or  on  the  shelly 
beach  of  Pozzuoli, — two  figures,  standing  out  in  strong  relief 
against  the  crimson  background  of  the  sky,  grand  in  outline, 
stature2  and  movement ;  not  unworthy  of  their  classic  mise  en 
scbie. 

Souci  and  her  companion  having  sauntered  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  stand  silently,  with  the  ripples  breaking  at  their 
feet,  watching  the  numberless  small  boats  dancing  in  the  dis- 
tance, where  fishermen  ply  their  humble  craft  as  industriously 
and  simply  as  they  did  centuries  ago,  when  St.  Paul  landed 
among  them,  bound  and  fettered,  on  his  way  to  martyrdom. 

Quite  silently  they  stand,  half  awed  by  the  loveliness  about 
them,  while  they  drink  in  with  a  strange,  delicious  SCUM'  of 
enjoyment  the  "  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound,''  which 
fills  iu  the  pauses  of  their  lagging  speech. 

22* 


258  SOUCL 

Souci's  mood  has  changed :  the  desire  to  attract,  to  dazzle 
the  man  beside  her  by  the  devices  which  heretofore  had  en- 
snared all  upon  whom  they  had  been  exercised,  has  apparently 
deserted  her.  The  wit,  the  brilliancy,  the  piquant  originality 
of  which  she  weaves  her  potent  charm,  have  been  laid  aside 
for  to-day.  A  studied  demureness — more  coquettish  than  co- 
quetry— marks  both  appearance  and  manner, — a  half-pensive 
droop  about  the  sensitive  lips,  a  shadowy  sadness  in  the  gray 
eyes,  a  lower  tone  in  the  'always-vibrating  voice,  a  toilet  whose 
elegance  lies  in  its  rigid  simplicity. 

She  is  beginning  to  feel  now,  as  the  day  draws  to  its  close, 
how  vain  and  utterly  useless  have  been  her  endeavors ;  how 
strangely  this  man  has  eluded  the  snares  she  spread  for  him ; 
how  this  rough,  honest  dweller  in  camps  has  evaded  the  peril 
which  no  wily  courtier  of  the  town  had  been  able  to  resist. 
She  is  growing  a  little  weary  of  her  roles,  and  would  fain  be 
natural  if  she  could,  she  thinks,  as  they  stand  there  side  by 
side — after  all  these  parting  years — gazing  out  over  the  richly- 
dyed  water  into  the  hazy  autumn-toned  distance. 

What  manner  of  man  has  this  Tonio  of  hers  come  to  be. 
that  his  dark  eyes  never  lose  that  expression  of  wistful  regret 
even  when  she  pours  all  the  fathomless  meaning  of  her  own 
into  them  ?  Why  does  he  seem  so  self-absorbed,  so  much 
farther  out  of  her  reach  than  other  men  ?  Why,  in  the  midst 
of  her  most  brilliant  epigrams  on  that  first  night,  when  the 
whole  table  applauded  to  the  echo,  had  she  seen  but  a  faint 
half-smile  on  his  lips,  followed  swiftly  by  a  weary-sounding 
sigh?  "Ah,  Tonio!"  she  mourns  in  her  heart,  "would  to 
Heaven  you  and  I  were  obscure  and  poor,  and — together  once 
more !  Would  that  you  were  out  there  in  yonder  fishing- 
boat,  bareheaded,  barefooted,  hungry  and  happy,  and  that 
I  were  that  sunburnt,  laughing  woman  in  her  ragged  petti- 
coat, aiding  you  to  draw  in  your  net !  How  grand  you  would 
look  with  that  scarlet  shirt  falling  away  from  your  strong, 
brown  neck,  with  your  sleeves  rolled  up  from  the  great  strain- 
ing muscles  of  your  brawny  arms,  with  your  white  teeth  gleam- 
ing in  answering  smiles  like  his,  and  your  dark  eyes  full  of 
responsive  light  in  which  lies  no  shadow  of  regret !  How 
quickly  then  would  I  lay  my  arms  about  your  neck  and  whis- 
per, '  I  am  Souci — thy  Souci — now  and  forever  !'  " 

A  sigh — a  real  genuine  sigh  which  trembles  upon  the  verge 


SOUCI.  259 

of  a  sob — breaks  the  silence.  Tonio  suspends  his  occupa- 
tion of  throwing  pebbles  into  the  shimmering  water  to  glance 
curiously  at  his  companion.  What  new  phase  of  coquetry  is 
this  ?  How  variable  are  the  moods  of  this  fascinating  woman, 
who  fails  to  fascinate  him,  to  his  own  astonishment !  For 
Tonio  cannot  deny  her  rare  charm,  regarding  her  at  times 
with  a  sort  of  wondering  admiration  and  not  in  the  least 
comprehending  her.  To  this  simple-hearted  man  the  artifices 
of  an  accomplished  woman  of  the  world  appear  actually  dis- 
honest ;  the  mysterious  magnetism  which  affects  him  in  spite 
of  himself  makes  him  distrustful  ;  the  deep,  ever-changing 
eyes  trouble  him,  and 'he  tries  to  recall  to  mind  those  frank, 
open  morning-glories,  wet  with  a  dew,  when  he  had  seen 
them  last,  to  which  he  believed  Souci's  eyes  were  strangers. 
The  sigh  which  had  broken  involuntarily  from  her  lips  had 
touched  him  for  the  first  time  into  a  show  of  interest.  "  It, 
at  least,  is  natural ;  she  is  not  acting  now  !"  he  thinks,  as  he 
tries  to  look  into  the  averted  face.  "  She  is  not  happy  either!" 
he  concludes.  "  I  feel  sure  she  has  tears  in  her  eyes,  poor 
girl !" 

To  his  surprise,  this  first  impulse  of  sympathy  is  checked 
by  Souci's  turning  suddenly  upon  him  with  her  face  all  aglow 
with  joyous  eagerness.  No  trace  of  tears  in  those  eyes 
which  seem  to  have  caught  some  of  the  glory  of  the  sunset 
under  their  long  lashes.  She  is  no  longer  the  languid,  melan- 
choly, Niobe-looking  woman  she  has  been  all  day  ;  nor  is  she 
the  bewildering  Delilah  she  had  heretofore  appeared  to  him  ; 
she  is  once  more  the  volatile,  impetuous,  generous-hearted, 
reckless  child  of  the  pav<$, — she  is  Sotici! 

Pull  yourself  together,  Tonio,  and  conjure  up  the  picture 
of  the  Alpine  violet  to  wear  as  an  amulet  against  evil  spells, 
for  the  sorceress  is  bent  upon  fell  mischief  now. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  boat  ?"  she  cries,  pointing  with  her 
parasol  at  a  miniature  fishing-skiff  dimly  defined  against  the 
glowing  sky.  "  Such  a  helpless,  miserable  little  shell  it  seems, 
rocking  itself  in  such  fancied  security,  and  yet  it  holds  a  s»nt 
within  its  frail  self!  It  is  like  my  life, — separated  from  all 
earthly  ties,  drifting  solitary  on  the  cruel  waters, — only  a  couple 
of  planks  between  it  and  destruction !  Monsieur,  I  have  u 
fancy.  Beckon  one  of  those  boatmen.  Take  me  out  in  that 
boat,  the  tiny  one, — take  me  over  to  Baise  !  No,  don't  glance 


260  SOUCL 

towards  the  others.  I  shall  go  alone  with  you.  I  will  have 
but  two  souls  on  board  for  just  this  once !  Come  !"  And 
with  the  same  wilful  imperious  movement  of  the  head,  which 
Tonio  now  so  well  remembers,  Souci  speeds  along  the  beach 
to  meet  the  boat,  which  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars  bring  to  her 
feet. 

"  Monsieur  Delacroix  ?"  Tonio  has  the  grace  to  murmur  as 
she  places  herself  in  the  stern. 

u  Bah  !  Am  I  not  Bohemienne?"  laughs  the  Souci  of  the 
market-place,  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  of  Lyons. 

Tonio  takes  the  oars, — one,  two  ;  they  are  off. 

"  Do  not  be  too  energetic,"  she  says,  lazily  regarding  him 
through  her  half-closed  eyes  as  he  bends  with  a  will  to  his 
oars.  "  I  have  not  any  decided  predilection  for  Baiae ;  per- 
haps I  may  take  a  fancy  to  Ischia,  or  to  Procida ;  they  both 
look  tempting." 

He  laughs,  and  draws  up  the  oars,  saying,  "  How  capricious 
you  are,  mademoiselle !  but  then  that  is  not  your  fault ;  the 
world  has  done  its  best  to  spoil  you !" 

"  Ah,  the  world  !"  she  sighs,  leaning  a  little  over  the  edge 
of  the  boat  to  watch  her  white  hand  trail  itself  through  the 
blue  water.  "  How  little  the  world  is  answerable  for  my  delin- 
quencies no  one  knows  better  than  I.  I  was  born  capricious, 
monsieur,  and  self-willed  and  tyrannical ;  there  is  bad  blood  in 
my  veins  which  no  amount  of  flattery  or  adulation  could  create. 
The  world  has  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  or  my  vagaries  would  be 
called  by  harsher  names ;  but  they  would  exist  all  the  same. 
Do  you  know  Beranger,  monsieur  ?  No  ?  Well,  listen  to  my 
history."  Then  in  her  sweetest  notes  she  warbles  forth  a  little 
chanson,  which  touches  into  keen  emotion  every  fibre  of 
Tonio's  being.  How  many  joyous,  sunny  days, — how  many 
sad  and  sorrowful  days, — how  much  of  careless  glee,  of  insou- 
ciant laughter,  as  well  as  of  pinched  privation  and  weary  pain, — 
does  this  little  song  recall  to  the  man,  who  sits  with  head  bowed 
on  his  breast,  living  over  again  those  early  years  which  now 
seem  like  a  dream  ! 


"JetS  sur  cette  boule, 

Laid,  che'tif,  souffrant, 
Elouffe  dans  la  foule, 
Faute  d'etre  assez  grand, 


SOUCI.  261 

Une  plainte  toucJiante 

De  ma  hum-he  sortit, 
Le  bon  Dieu  me  dit,  '  Chante, 

Chante,  pauvre  petit  /'  " 

The  words  are  simple  as  the  air, — but  never  had  siren  made 
better  musical  selection  wherewith  to  lead  her  captive  to  his 
doom. 

"  Le  char  de  T  opulence 

Afe'clabousse  en  passant; 
Ttprouve  Vinsolence 

Du  riche  ei  du  puissant: 
De  leur  morgue  tranchanie 

Rien  ne  nous  garantlt. 
Le  bon  Dieu  me  dit,  '  Chante, 

Chante,  pauvre  petit  /'  " 

Once  more  Tonio  is  drawing  along  by  the  hand  a  half-clad, 
half-starved,  sallow-faced  elf  through  the  deserted  Paris  streets 
at  daybreak ;  once  again  he  hears  her  delirious  prophecies 
and  sees  the  glow  in  the  great  eyes  as  she  cries,  in  thrilling 
tones,  "  You  shall  sit  on  my  throne  and  be  my  king !"  ere  the 
waxen  lids  closed  in  that  dread  semblance  of  death  which  had 
torn  his  heart  to  look  upon  !  Again  and  again  he  hears  her 
trill  out  those  same  words — that  well-known  air — on  the  Boule- 
vards of  Paris, — in  the  Lyons  streets, — on  those  joyous  holi- 
days when  she  had  sung  them  before  a  select  audience  of  two, 
— M.  The'ophile  and — himself. 

And  now  he  lives  over  again  the  night  of  their  parting ; 
the  night  when  she  had  closed  that  relentless  door  between 
her  quivering  lips  and  his,  and  when  he  had  pressed  upon  the 
senseless  wood  his  bitter,  sad  farevell. 

Sweet  and  clear  rises  the  plaintive  ballad,  subtly  weighted 
by  association,  and  Tonio  yields  o  its  magic  power,  and,  blot- 
ting out  the  intervening  years,  suffers  once  more  the  pang 
\\liidi  it  had  cost  him  to  cut  himself  adrift  from  Souoi. 

She,  watching  him  under  her  drooped  lids,  finds  exquisite 
delight  in  his  sudden  flush  and  succeeding  pallor;  in  the  utter 
forgetfulness  of  everything  present,  in  that  absorbing  retn >SJK  <•- 
tion.  So  greatly  does  this  idea  relieve  her  fears  of  his  foruet- 
fulness,  that  a  swift  rush  of  tenderness  overflows  her  heart 
and  chokes  the  carolling  voice  into  sudden  silence.  Tonio, 


262  SOUCI. 

glancing  up  with  his  face  eloquent  with  feeling,  meets  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  in  them  all  the  concentrated  longing  of  the 
lonely,  waiting  years ! 

Transfixed  by  an  electric  sympathy,  they  gaze  mutely  into 
each  other's  eyes :  an  invisible,  irresistible  force  seems  to  draw 
Tonio  to  her  feet.  Reason,  faith,  loyalty,  appear  to  shrivel  up 
under  the  fire  of  those  glowing  eyes.  His  head  grows  strangely 
confused :  is  it  the  movement  of  the  boat,  or  the  dreamy  hazi- 
ness of  the  atmosphere,  overweighted  by  that  faint,  rich  scent 
of  orange-blossoms  from  the  shore,  which  blinds  him  to  every- 
thing on  earth  save  that  marble-white,  passion-eloquent  face, 
with  its  pathetic-drooping  lips'and  its  tender,  yearning  gaze? 

In  another  moment  he  had  cast  himself  down  in  an  abject 
subjection — to  the  child  he  had  rescued  from  despair,  whom 
he  had  held  in  his  arms  and  hushed  to  sleep  on  his  shoulder 
and  starved  himself  to  feed ;  her  name  is  trembling  on  his 
lips;  a  loving  smile  is  breaking  over  her  face:  the  joyous 
recognition  is  at  hand  which  shall  bind  him  heart  and  soul 
her  own  forever — when  wafted  towards  him  on  the  air  comes 
the  subtle  fragrance  from  a  bunch  of  violets  worn  in  her  bosom. 

What  magic  lies  in  these  little  purple  blossoms,  that  their 
delicate  perfume  should  have  power  to  dissolve  the  spell  which 
had  wellnigh  betrayed  him  ? 

Gathering  up  the  oars  with  a  quick  gasp,  he  recovers  his 
self-control,  and,  bending  courteously  towards  his  companion, 
says,  with  an  effort  which  makes  his  voice  sound  strangely 
harsh,  "  Is  it  to  be  Ischia — or  Procida,  mademoiselle  ?  The 
day  is  fading,  and — we  are  losing  time." 


SOUCI.  263 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BAFFLED   AGAIN. 

....  "By  this  light  of  heaven, 

I  know  not  how  I  lost  him!  .... 

If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 

Either  in  discourse  of  thought,  or  actual  deed; 

Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 

Delighted  them  in  any  other  form ; 

Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 

And  ever  will, — though  he  do  shake  me  off, 

....  love  him  dearly, 

Comfort  forswear  me !     Unkindness  may  do  much; 

And  his  unkindncss  may  defeat  my  life, 

But  never  taint  my  love." 

IF  Souci's  first  impulse  had  been  to  shriek  out  wildly  and 
beat  her  breast  in  an  agony  of  disappointment  and  humiliation, 
at  the  moment  when  some  unknown,  fatal  influence  had  inter- 
posed itself  between  Touio  and  herself,  the  habit  of  repression 
which  she  had  forced  herself  to  acquire  during  the  last  half- 
(lo/,(  n  years  quelled  that  impotent  outbreak  before  the  second 
dip  of  the  oars.  That  the  impulse  smouldered  with  even  more 
devastating  effect  need  not  be  matter  of  surprise. 

The  shock  caused  by  the  abrupt  and  unaccountable  altera- 
tion in  Tonio's  look  and  manner — the  sudden  casting  off"  of  the 
withes  by  which  she  had  wellnigh  bound  him — hud  served  to 
illumine  as  by  a  lightning-flash  the  innermost  corners  of  her 
heart,  and  had  filled  her  with  a  certain  terror. 

She  began  to  fear  that  this  dominant  feeling  of  her  life  had 
acquired  a  power  of  absorption  which  gave  it  a  dangerous 
clutch  upon  her  entire  future  existence.  The  grateful  affec- 
tion of  childhood  ;  the  half-sentimental  devotion  of  later  ye:ir- : 
the  imaginary  bond  which  she  had  loved  to  believe  existed 
between  them  during  the  years  she  struggled  and  strove  to 
make  herself  worthy  of  him, — all  these  seemed  now  to  her  but 
as  the  first,  foolish,  unintelligible  babble  of  an  infant's  tongue 


264  SOUCL 

beside  the  strong,  solemn  voice  which  whispered  in  her  ear 
that  now,  and  now  only,  had  love  come  to  her. 

It  had  been  this  sudden  revelation  which  had  awed  and 
mastered  her ;  which  had  sent  the  blood  back  upon  her  heart 
with  suffocating  violence  and  helped  her  to  maintain  a  decent 
composure  of  look  and  speech  during  their  drive  back  to  Naples 
from  Pozzuoli ;  this,  which  had  driven  her,  trembling  and  nerve- 
less, to  the  quiet  shelter  of  her  own  room,  on  her  return  to  the 
hotel,  and  had  shaken  her  with  a  tempest  of  sobs  as  she  clung 
with  frantic  grief  to  poor,  frightened  Jeanne,  whilst  she  reit- 
erated in  pitiful  gasps  that  most  manifest  untruth,  "  Nobody 
loves  me,  Jeanne  !  Nobody  !  Nobody  !" 

Her  engagement  at  the  San  Carlo  has  terminated.  Another 
managerial  voice  is  urging  its  claims  from  Milan ;  but  the 
prima-donna,  grown  deaf  and  blind  to  her  pecuniary  interests, 
unhesitatingly  cancels  her  agreements  without  scruple.  She 
elects  to  stay  where  she  is.  Why  not  ?  Can  any  place  be 
more  delightful  than  this  "  City  of  Sirens"  and  its  enchant- 
ing environs  ?  Is  not  the  sky  bluer,  the  air  more  intoxicating, 
the  sea  fuller  of  dancing  lights,  than  in  any  Other  spot  on 
God's  fair  earth  ? 

To  Souci  it  seems  indeed  "  un  pezzo  del  cielo  cadiito  in 
terra  "  for  does  it  not  hold  her  heart's  desire  ?  and  is  it  not 
here  that  she  and  Tonio  have  met  once  more  ? 

She  sees  him  constantly  now.  In  spite  of  himself  he  is 
drawn  into  walks  and  drives  and  entertainments,  of  which  she 
takes  advantage  to  exercise  her  manifold  witcheries  to  subdue 
him.  She  has  begun  to  believe  that  his  pride  stands  in  the 
way  of  a  frank  renewal  of  their  old  relations.  She  is  no  longer 
the  miserable  pauper,  the  unknown  outcast,  whom  he  had 
shielded  with  his  own  feeble  arm.  She  is  the  world-renowned 
Queen  of  Song,  the  idol  of  Paris,  the  eagerly-sought  ornament 
of  aristocratic  reunions.  Men  have  gone  mad  about  her ; 
more  than  one  coronet  has  been  offered  her ;  royal  gifts  deck 
her  jewel-casket.  She  stands  on  the  pinnacle  of  fame  and 
fortune,  while  he  is  just  beginning  to  carve  his  way  upwards 
with  the  sword. 

So  she  feeds  her  hope  and  lingers,  apparently  indifferent 
to  Raoul  Delacroix's  remonstrances,  as  she  is  to  everything 
else  save  the  object  she  has  in  view.  A  sort  of  feverish  ex- 


SOUCL  265 

altation  possesses  her  at  times,  which  has  the  effect  of  reckless- 
ness, and  which  brings  the  Souci  of  other  days  forcibly  before 
Tonio's  eyes  and  stirs  him  more  deeply  than  he  is  willing  to 
acknowledge. 

"  You  seem  very  fond  of  cameos,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  to 
her  one  evening,  as  he  returned  her  a  rare  antique,  which  she 
had  unclasped  from  her  arm  at  his  request.  "  I  am  not  a 
judge  of  such  things,  but  I  should  imagine  yours  are  very 
fine." 

"  You  are  right ;  these  are  very  fine, — unique  indeed  ; 
they  cost  a  little  fortune,  I  believe,"  she  answered,  carelessly. 

"  A  little  fortune  !"  echoed  Tonio,  with  brusque  simplicity. 
"  In  that  case,  mademoiselle,  one  of  your  useless  ornaments 
would  perhaps  clothe  and  feed  a  score  or  two  of  the  widows 
and  orphans  we  have  made."  His  voice  was  grave  and,  Souci 
fancied,  cold. 

"  Ah,  yes!"  she  cried,  falling  quickly  into  his  mood.  "It 
would  !  it  might !  it  shall!  I  have  some  jewels  ;  to-morrow 
they  shall  pay  the  penalty  of  their  beautiful  iiselessness  ;  they 
shall  be  offered  up  on  the  altar  of  charity.  Ah,  monsieur, 
only  show  me  how  to  do  good  with  the  wealth  which  pours  in 
upon  me, — tell  me  how  I  may  help  these  poor  people,  I  pray 
you, — and  you  shall  have  no  reason  to  reproach  me !" 

She  spoke  earnestly,  eagerly  ;  her  voice,  vibrating  with  feel- 
ing, thrilled  to  the  heart  of  the  man  beside  her. 

"  Reproach  you,  mademoiselle  !"  he  replied,  coldly.  "  I  ask 
your  pardon  ;  such  was  not  my  intention."  Then,  as  she  drew 
back  quickly,  stung  by  his  manner,  he  added,  more  lightly, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  your  vls-d-vis?  Handsome,  is  she 
njit  V  Souci's  eyes  flashed  ominously. 

"  Brilliant !''  she  cried,  recovering  herself  instantly.  "  Ask 
her  what  she  thinks  her  jewels  are  worth  !  Perhaps  you  may 
exact  another  sacrifice  ;  her  toilette  would  equip  an  army  !" 

"  It  is  very  pretty,"  returned  Tonio,  quietly  ;  "  something 
of  the  Louis  XV.  day,  I  fancy.  She  looks  like  a  picture  !" 

"  Very  little  skirt  and  less  corsage,"  went  on  Souci,  wick- 
edly.  "  It  reminds  UK;  of  Talleyrand's  answer  to  a  lady  who 
tried  to  extort  a  compliment  from  him  on  her  ball  d 

'    M'l'/tlllK  .    till'    C'HIIIIII  IICI     f,l.fl-fllf</    I  I    fill      fillit    tl'IIJI    t<"lt   /'   " 

A  side-glance  showed  Souci  that  her  companion  was  tning 


266  &OVCL 

to  suppress  a  smile.  "  Signora !"  she  cried,  suddenly,  addressing 
the  object  o/  their  criticism, — a  resplendent  brune  gorgeously 
attired, — "  Signora !  il  Capitano  Bettoni  is  anxious  to  know 
of  what  use  are  the  costly  breloques  attached  by  a  chain  to 
your  girdle  ?" 

"  Of  what  use  f"  drawled  la  signora,  turning  her  superb 
eyes  with  a  languid  air  of  amusement  upon  Tonio,  while  she 
half  suspected  malice  on  the  part  of  Souci.  "  Are  you  so 
matter  of  fact,  so  materialistic,  that  you  would  abolish  all 
beautiful  objects  which  are  not  useful?  Their  use,  monsieur," 
she  continued,  glancing  at  a  variety  of  jewelled  trifles,  each  of 
them  a  marvel  of  artistic  workmanship,  worn  dangling  at  the 
end  of  a  golden  chain, — "  their  use  is  the  same  as  that  of — 
lovely  women  or — the  lilies  of  the  field, — to  do  nothing  and 
look  as  pretty  as  they  can.  Useful  things  are  like  useful 
women — generally  ugly !"  And  she  turned  to  her  neighbor 
to  resume  a  lazy  flirtation  which  that  eccentric  prima-donna 
people  raved  about,  so  absurdly,  had  needlessly  interrupted. 

They  were  dining  with  the  Prince  di  Rocca  Bocca,  one  of 
Souci's  most  infatuated  admirers ;  she  addressed  him  now 
with  her  most  bewildering  smile,  as  the  "  squeak  !  squeak  !" 
of  a  violin  was  heard  beloAv,  and  the  ears  of  the  company  were 
assailed  by  an  energetic  performance  on  that  instrument  accom- 
panied by  the  jingle  of  a  tambourine.  With  a  frown  of 
annoyance  the  Prince  beckoned  a  servant,  and  ordered  him  to 
disperse  the  nuisance  which  had  dared  to  intrude  itself  within 
the  private  grounds  of  his  villa. 

The  man  had  scarcely  left  the  room  when  Souci,  with  a 
strange  gleam  in  her  eyes,  leaned  forward,  saying,  softly,  "  M. 
le  Prince,  I  crave  a  favor  at  your  hands." 

"  Speak,  signorina,"  he  responded,  gallantly.  "  In  the  words 
of  M.  de  Calonne  to  his  queen,  '  Si  ccst  possible  cest  fait : 
si  ceRt  impossible  cela  se  ferd  /'  ' 

"  Bon  /"  smiled  Souci.  "  Have  the  musicians  recalled. 
I  have  a  fancy  for  seeing  the  itinerant  musical  genius  of  the 
country.  May  they  play  in  that  alcove  ?" 

"  Assuredly,  signorina  !"  replied  the  delighted  Prince,  dis- 
patching a  second  footman  promptly. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  surprise  and  disapproval  around 
the  table,  and,  as  the  last  course  had  been  served,  several 
couples  arose,  and  with  a  laughing  apology  to  their  host  and 


SOVCL  2G7 

an  allusion  to  the  beauty  of  his  terraces,  sauntered  through 
the  open  windows  to  the  grounds  beyond. 

Soon  there  was  a  sound  of  scuffling  feet  mounting  the 
marble  staircase;  the  door  opened,  and  the  musicians  entered, 
half  paralyzed  with  fright, — half  wild  with  wonder  and  joy 
at  the  prospect  of  lavish  Lnona-mano.  A  boy,  partially 
clothed  in  picturesque"  rags,  with  a  clear-cut,  olive  face  and 
liquid  dark  eyes,  dragged  by  the  hand  a  girl,  equally  scantily 
clothed,  who  could  have  sat  for  Souci's  portrait  a  few  short 
years  ago. 

Coffee  and  cigarettes  were  on  the  table,  with  an  abundance 
of  fruit  and  confectionery ;  the  children  eyed  these  dainties 
ravenously  as  they  stumbled  over  their  wretched  repertoire  in 
the  alcove.  Souci,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  watched  Tonio 
furtively.  A  deep  flush  dyed  his  check ;  his  eyes  were  fixed 
pityingly  upon  the  poor  little  creatures,  while  a  multitude 
of  memories  pressed  upon  him  and  filled  him  with  a  vague 
sndness.  He  felt  like  a  man  just  awakened,  who  is  tor- 
mented by  the  vague  remembrance  of  a  horrible,  half-forgotten 
dream. 

Presently  he  turned  and  met  Souci's  gaze  fixed  upon  him 
in  wistful  appeal. 

For  a  moment  Tonio  faltered  ;  the  pathetic  little  stratagem 
touched  him  keenly.  His  voice  had  lost  something  of  its 
clear,  firm  tone,  and  the  dark  flush  had  faded  in  his  cheek,  as 
he  said,  gently,  "  Why  have  you  done  this  thing?"  Then,  as 
her  head  drooped  under  his  searching  eyes  and  he  could  see 
the  proud  lips  quiver,  he  added,  stiffly,  with  the  disingenuous- 
ness  natural  to  the  human  heart  when  it  disavows  a  knowledge 
which  it  is  inconvenient  to  comprehend,  "  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
understand  the  motive  of  this  last  caprice.  Why  are  these 
poor  little  wretches " 

'•Why?"  interrupted  Souci's  ringing  tones,  as  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  her  eyes  blazed  into  his.  "  Why  ?  '  Tel 
(•st  notre  plaisir?  monsieur !"  With  which  royal  reply  she 
turned  from  him  with  her  haughtiest  gesture  and  resumed  her 
laughing  conversation  with  the  Prince.  A  moment  later  Tonio 
had  joined  a  party  at  the  farther  end  of  the  terrace,  of  whom 
her  handsome  vis-d-vfs,  who  "  looked  like  a  picture,"  was  the 
centre  of  attraction. 

Cutting  short  the   Prince's  compliments  by  sending  him 


268  SOUCI. 

on  some  fruitless  errand,  Souci  stood  with  her  hands  tightly 
clenched,  watching  through  the  long,  open  window  that  group 
at  the  end  of  the  terrace. 

For  a  few  wild,  tempestuous  minutes  all  that  was  evil  in  this 
woman's  nature  ran  riot  within  her.  During  those  minutes 
she  could  have  committed  crime  without  blenching  ;  she  felt 
as  if  she  could  come,  in  time,  to  hate  the  man  who  stood  there 
so  calm  and  gentle  and — cold ;  the  man  who  persistently 
thwarted  and  baffled  and — tortured  her  ! 

A  bitter  sigh  broke  from  her  as  she  saw  Raoul  Delacroix 
saunter  up  to  the  group  about  the  bewitching  Italian.  "  He, 
too  !"  she  murmured.  "  What  it  is  to  be  beautiful !  Ah,  if 
I  had  your  beauty,  signora, — your  coloring, — your  glorious 
dark  eye?, — he  would  have  been  at  my  feet  long  ago.  Pah  ! 
have  I  fallen  so  low  that  I  must  lie  to  myself?  Do  I  not 
know  well  that  yonder  fair  idiot  does  not  possess  one  tithe  of 
the  power  which  subdues  to  my  will  all — no,  not  all !  not  the 
one  for  whose  sake  I  would " 

At  this  instant  the  screeching  of  the  violin  suddenly  ceased, 
and  the  squalid  little  figures  in  the  alcove  (who  had  been 
performing  heroically  to  an  empty  saloon  at  the  Princ'e's  orders) 
were  curtsying  profoundly.  A  thrill  of  pity  stilled  the  tumult 
in  Souci's  heart  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  them.  "  Come  to  me !" 
she  cried,  in  her  most  winning  voice.  ("  Poor  little  creatures, 
how  thin  they  are !")  "  Sit  down  at  the  table  and  eat  all  the 
good  things  you  can !  See !  here  are  grapes  and  figs  and 
nectarines,  and  sweets  of  all  kinds  !"  Then,  while  she  piled 
their  plates  and  filled  their  pockets,  she  drew  from  them  par- 
ticulars of  their  family  history  which  made  her  smile  even 
with  tear-brimmed  eyes. 

"  Jeanne,"  cried  Souci  the  following  morning,  when  she 
found  herself  alone  with  her  humble  friend, — "  Jeanne,  fetch 
me  my  trinket-cases, — all  of  them, — at  least  all  that  I  have 
purchased  myself.  Ah !  why  was  I  tempted  to  buy  those 
cameos?  And  now,  my  purse  !  See,  Jeanne,  here  is  gold — 

plenty  of  it ;  this  must  be  taken,  at  once,  to  the  Via  , 

No.  — ;  there  is  a  mother  with  six  little  ones  there, — all  of 
them  musicians, — all  hungry  and  very  nearly  naked  !  As  for 
these,"  she  laid  the  cases  containing  the  cameos  on  Jeanne's 
lap,  "  they  shall  '  feed  and  clothe  a  score  or  two  of  the  widows 


SOUCT.  269 

and  orphans  we  have  made  /'  "  with  a  dreamy  look  in  the 
soft  eyes  and  a  lingering  sadness  in  her  smile. 

u  Mam'selle  !"  quoth  puzzled  Jeanne. 

"  These  are  to  be  sold,  I  say ;  here  are  the  bills  of  them  ; 
they  will  sell  for  very  nearly  the  original  cost, — and  the 
money,  my  good  friend,  you  must  distribute  yourself  among 
the  suffering  poor  of  Naples." 

"The  lazzaroni,  mam'selle?  They  would  not  know  what 
to  do  with  it,  the  lazy,  dirty,  idle  vagabonds !"  cried  Jeanne, 
carried  out  of  her  wonted  tranquillity  by  the  thrifty  Breton's 
abhorrence  of  filth  and  indolence. 

Souci  looked  troubled.  "  Give  it,  then,  to  the  mothers  and 
wives  of  the  soldiers.  Look  about  you ;  there  are  surely  some 
deserving  objects  of  compassion.  Do  the  best  you  can  with 
it.  I  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu !  mam'selle  has  assuredly  gone 
mad  !"  cried  Jeanne,  distractedly,  gathering  together  the  jewel- 
cases,  while  she  racked  her  brains  to  remember  a  single  case 
worthy  of  charity  in  that  sun-kissed  city,  swarming  with  half- 
naked  beggars  who  were  happier  than  kings. 


23* 


BOOK   VII. 

HEINKICH. 
CHAPTER  I. 

"A   MON   AME   IL   PAUT   MON   DIEU  !" 

"A  1'enfant  il  faut  sa  m&re, 
A  mon  ame  il  faut  mon  Dieu  !" 

FOR  a  brief  season  after  Viola  and  Nina  had  been  so  cosily 
established  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Augustin  everything  seemed 
to  prosper  with  them.  Orders  flowed  in  upon  them,  and  had 
they  possessed  four  pairs  of  hands  instead  of  two,  they  would 
have  found  ample  occupation.  Each  day  they  improved  in 
health  and  spirits,  feeling  that  now  at  last  they  were  able  to 
insure  themselves  at  least  from  actual  starvation  in  the  future. 
There  was  only  one  drawback  to  Viola's  contentment :  she 
could  gain  no  tidings  of  her  father — no  news  from  Vogogna. 
She  had  written  again  and  again, — cautiously  avoiding  giving 
their  present  address,  and  going  herself  to  the  post-office, — but 
no  reply  had  yet  reached  her.  • 

Nina  would  often  comfort  her  by  assuring  her  that  her 
father  was  on  his  way  to  them  ;  that  they  would  certainly  pass 
him  en  route  were  they  to  return  now  to  Vogogna,  besides 
losing  all  the  custom  which  they  had  striven  so  hard  to  gain. 

Thus  the  bright  summer  passed,  and  the  first  gleam  of  au- 
tumn russet  amid  the  foliage  of  the  parks  and  gardens  heralded 
the  return  of  pleasure's  votaries  to  their  beloved  Paris. 

One  evening  late  in  September,  Viola  sat  at  her  little  cot- 
tage-piano, playing  softly  from  memory  one  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned melodies  she  loved.  Nina  was  on  a  low  chair  beside 
her,  with  her  head  leaning  against  the  instrument  and  her 
eyes  fixed  in  a  sort  of  dumb  adoration  on  the  sweet  face  of 
270 


n  EIX  men.  271 

her  friend,  which  seemed  to  gain  day  by  day  an  added  love- 
liness. 

That  was  the  happiest  hour  of  their  day;  their  work  had 
been  laid  aside  ;  their  lamp  was  yet  unlighted  ;  a  soft  twilight 
and  the  sweet  strains  of  Viola's  music  seemed  to  blend  rest- 
fully  and  refresh  their  weariness. 

"  Only  one  week  longer  in  these  dear  little  rooms  !"  sighed 
Nina,  casting  a  tender  glance  around  her.  "Ah,  Viola,  it 
will  be  hard  to  go  back  to  the  garret  in  the  old  city  after  this  !" 

"  You  shall  not  go  to  a  garret  anywhere,  picciofa"  replied 
Viola,  without  taking  her  hands  from  the  keys.  "  Do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  have  you  turn  into  a  wilted  snowdrop 
again,  after  all  the  trouble  you've  given  me  to  bring  the  roses 
iuto  your  white  cheeks?" 

"Ah,  Viola,  you  are  laughing  at  me !  There  are  no  roses 
in  my  brown  face,  and  never  will  be ;  they  don't  grow  in  such 
soil  as  my  wizened  countenance." 

*'  Fie,  Nina !  You  want  me  to  flatter  you.  But  I'm 
afraid  even  flattery  cannot  see  any  bloom  in  your  face  to- 
night, child ;  you  are  paler  than  usual.  Are  you  very  tired, 
miynonne  ?"  And  closing  the  piano,  Viola  drew  the  hunch- 
back's head  upon  her  knee,  and  gently  stroked  the  hair  from 
her  brow. 

"  Where  shall  we  go,  then,  Viola?"  pursued  Nina,  avoiding 
a  reply  to  this  question  :  "  have  you  thought  about  it?" 

"  Yes.  Madame  Dubois  has  spoken  to  me  of  a  nice  little 
room  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  ;  it  is  on  the  entresol  over 
a  picture-dealer's  shop  (for  I  told  her  how  short  your  breath 
was,  and  that  we  could  not  go  to  the  top  of  the  house).  It  is 
not  nearly  so  nice  a  room  as  this,  you  know,  dear,  but  it  is 
comfortable ;  and  the  people  are  honest  ouvriers,  she  says,  and 
we  will  be  used  to  it  very  soon." 

Ah!  if  we  could  but  stay  here !"  almost  wailed  the  child. 
"  I  hate  those  noisy,  crowded  faubourgs ;  and  you  will  havo 
no  piano,  or  flowers,  or  sitting-room;  only  one  stuffy,  stifling, 
little  bedroom,  to  work,  and  eat,  and  sleep  in  !  Oh,  Viola  !" 
And  she  sighed  heavily. 

"But  I  -shall  have  you,  Nina!  Think  of  that!  How 
ili-sohite  I  should  be  were  I  to  work  and  eat  and  sleep  in  the 
stuffy  little  room  all  alone!  Besides,  winter  is  coming.  :ni«l 
wood  is  dear  in  Paris ;  we  shall  be  warmer  in  one  little  room. 


272  SOUCI. 

Viola  spoke  cheerfully,  though  she,  too,  dreaded  leaving  her 
present  quarters. 

"  Why  can  we  not  stay  here  ?"  persisted  Nina,  after  a  little. 
"  We  have  saved  some  money,  Viola ;  have  we  not  enough  to 
pay  the  rent  ?" 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  the  rent  is  during  the  winter 
months,  little  one  ?  It  is  double,  treble  the  sum  Tonio  paid 
in  the  summer,  when  these  rooms  are  not  in  such  demand.  It 
would  take  our  entire  earnings  through  the  winter  to  pay  for 
one  month  here !  Madame  tells  me  she  has  engaged  them  to 
a  Russian  lady  for  the  coming  six  months,  most  advanta- 
geously." 

"  Ah,  Dio !     Viola,  where  is  Tonio  ?" 

"  In  Naples — with  Garibaldi." 

11  Why  does  he  not  come  back  ?  He  said  he  would — before 
we  should  have  to  leave  these  rooms.  Why  don't  he  come, 
Viola  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  want  him  to  come.  Oh,  Nina,  do 
you  think  I  could  go  on  living  at  his  expense  ?  Don't  ever 
think  of  such  a  thing  again." 

"  He  loves  you  so  !"  murmured  the  hunchback,  drawing  the 
slender  hand  from  her  head  and  pressing  her  lips  upon  it. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  he  should  not  come,"  returned 
Viola,  in  low,  sad  tones. 

"  But  you  write  to  him,"  Nina  urged.  "  You  will  come  to 
love  him  some  day, — and  then  you  will  be  his  wife,  and  I " 

"  Hush,  Nina.  I  do  love  him,  dearly ;  but  I  shall  never  be 
his  wife  !  And  what  was  to  become  of  you,  mignonne  ?"  she 
added,  trying  to  speak  more  lightly. 

"  I — I  shall  go  to  God  !"  replied  the  child.  "  I  would  be 
only  in  the  way, — an  ugly,  helpless,  ignorant  cripple  !  Who 
would  care  to  have  me  about  them  in  their  happiness  ?'' 

"  Nina  !  Nina  !  What  has  come  over  you,  child,  that  you 
should  speak  so  cruelly  to  me  ?  Why  are  you  so  sad  and  bit- 
ter and  despondent  to-night  ?  you  who  have  been  like  a  streak 
of  sunshine  to  me  in  my  saddest  days  ?  You  are  not  well, 
carissima.  Come,  we  will  work  no  more  to-night.  You 
shall  go  to  bed,  and  I  will  sit  by  you  and  sing  you  to  sleep. 
Come !" 

Tenderly  Viola  undressed  the  now  evidently-suffering  child 
and  laid  her  in  her  little  white-draped  bed,  sitting,  as  she  had 


if /•:/ \iticir.  273 

promised,  late  into  the  night,  holding  the  brown  little  hand, 
which  never  got  rid  of  its  signs  of  out-door  toil,  while  she  sang 
in  her  softest  voice  sweet,  sacred  words  of  hope  and  cheer. 

At  first  Nina  seemed  unable  to  overcome  a  feverish  restless- 
ness, and  complained  once  or  twice  of  pain  in  her  chest  and 
difficulty  of  breathing,  but  after  a  while  she  became  composed, 
and  Viola  thought  she  was  sleeping. 

Turning  in  the  midst  of  her  singing  to  assure  herself  of 
this  fact,  she  was  startled  to  find  the  brown  eyes  wide  open, 
with  a  wild,  hunted  look  in  them,  while  a  crimson  streak 
marked  each  cheek  with  ghastly  brilliancy. 

Stooping  over  her  with  a  sharp  pang  of  fear  at  her  heart, 
she  heard  her  mutter,  "  He  will  not  die,  Viola;  will  he?  Oh, 
tell  me  that  he  will  not  die  !  It  would  be  murder,  they  said, — 
and  I  should  be  shut  up  out  of  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  the 
green  trees  and  the  flowers  and  birds " 

Waiting  to  hear  no  more,  Viola  sped  quickly  to  the  room 
on  the  rez  de  diaitss6e  occupied  by  Madame  Dubois. 

Fortunately,  the  good  little  woman  was  at  home,  and  volun- 
teered to  send  Albertine,  her  maid-of-all-work,  for  the  nearest 
doctor,  and  to  go  herself  to  take  a  look  at  the  child. 

''  It  is  inflammation  of  the  lungs,"  pronounced  madame, 
after  listening  to  the  labored  breathing  and  feeling  the  rapid 
pulse ;  and  forthwith  commenced  preparing  cataplasms  and 
ti.-unes  which  would  infallibly  afford  relief. 

"  Is  it  dangerous  ?"  Viola  had  whispered  with  tremulous 
eagerness. 

"  Sometimes  it  is,  and  sometimes  it  isn't :  it  depends  on 
the  constitution  and  the  nursing  and  the  doctor"  returned 
madame. 

When  the  doctor  arrived,  he  corroborated  her  opinion,  and 
wrote  several  prescriptions,  looked  oftener  at  Viola  than  he  did 
at  the  patient,  and  promised  to  return  in  the  morning. 

But  when  the  morning  came  there  was  no  need  of  the 
faltering  words  and  red  eyes  of  Madame  Dubois  to  warn  Viola 
that  the  doctor  had  declared  there  was  no  hope ;  that  before 
many  hours  the  suffering,  maimed,  sad  little  life  would  be 
ended. 

From  the  very  first  pang  which  had  shot  through  her  heart 
tin-  ]>oor  girl  had  felt  that  her  little  companion,  (lie  eliild  she 
had  grown  to  love  so  fondly,  was  to  be  taken  from  her. 

M* 


274  •  SOUCI. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"ALL   IS   LOST   EXCEPT   A   LITTLE   LIFE!" 

.  .  .  .  "  The  wrecked  heart  lies  cold, 
While  heaviness  collects  the  shattered  spoils. 
It  is  not  in  the  storm  nor  in  the  strife 
We  feel  benumbed  and  wish  to  be  no  more: 
But  in  the  after-silence  on  the  shore, 
When  all  is  lost — except  a  little  life  !" 

IT  is  the  afternoon  of  a  delicious,  mellow,  autumn  day,  and 
Paris  is  alive  with  the  animated  movement  and  gay  bustle 
which  proclaim  it  full  to  overflowing. 

The  principal  thoroughfares  are  thronged  with  equipages ; 
the  shops  have  put  on  their  festive  array  ;  the  restaurants  and 
estaminets  are  crowded ;  and  even  their  concomitants,  the 
cafes  chantants,  are  doing  a  profitable,  if  unseasonable,  business. 

A  ceaseless  rolling  of  wheels  to  and  fro  mingles  with  the 
calls  of  the  flower-vendors  selling  their  autumnal  posies  ;  the 
confused  murmur  of  vivacious  voices,  with  the  well-trained 
laughter  of  women  breaking  through  it ;  the  frou-frou  of  their 
dresses  and  the  clacking  of  their  high-heeled  chaussnres  blend 
with  the  distant  sound  of  music, — perhaps  a  melancholy  hurdy- 
gurdy,  or  a  cracked  imitation  of  Madame  Therese. 

At  a  table  in  front  of  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens, 
Lyster  Rawdon  has  seated  himself.  Lighting  a  cigar  and 
calling  for  some  sherry  and  seltzer,  he  leisurely  consumes  them, 
while  he  watches  somewhat  weariedly  the  ever-varying  pano- 
rama before  him. 

He  has  had  a  tiresome  day,  looking  up  and  gathering  to- 
gether the  indispensable  impedimenta  and  accumulated  rub- 
bish of  three  years'  wandering,  preparatory  to  starting  for 
England  the  following  morning. 

He  had  written  to  Lord  Harrowdale  to  announce  his  inten- 
tion of  returning  to  his  native  land  and  taking  up  the  career 
which  had  hitherto  appeared  so  distasteful  to  him.  His  uncle 


HEINRICH.  275 

had  replied  with  cool  courtesy,  through  which  gleamed  as  little 
of  personal  gratification  as  was  consistent  with  his  lordship's 
customary  manner:  nevertheless,  the  fatted  calf  was  killed  at 
Harrowdale  Court. 

Lystcr  is  thinking  almost  yearningly  of  his  boyhood's  home 
as  he  sits  alone  amid  this  motley,  foreign  crowd ;  lost  in  his 
own  thoughts  in  spite  of  the  confusion  of  tongues  and  din  of 
clinking  glasses. 

A  motley  crowd  it  is, — smoking,  laughing,  eating,  drink- 
ing, gayly  iiixunciniit,  obtrusively  polite:  the  white-aproned, 
ubiquitous  gar<;on  darting  hither  and  thither,  bearing  trays 
of  ices,  lemonade,  coffee,  or  cognac. 

At  one  table  is  seated  a  burly  bourgeois  "papa,"  with 
madame  and  three  lank,  black-eyed,  and  unwholesome-skinned 
daughters,  over  whose  every  glance  and  movement  a  rigorous 
surveillance  is  maintained  by  the  heads  of  the  family. 

With  downcast  eyes  they  meekly  sip  their  enu  sucree  a  la 
i/ mm  il/e,  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact  that  a  couple  of  callow 
students  at  an  adjoining  table  are  devouring  them  over  the 
rims  of  their  absinthe  glasses. 

Next  to  these  are  a  young  commis  de  magaxin  and  his  bride. 
Bride  she  is  from  the  spray  of  orange-blossom  in  her  little; 
white  bonnet  to  the  tip  of  the  fawn-colored  boot  which  peeps 
lu-ncath  the  elaborately-goffered  petticoats. 

The  left  hand,  on  which  gleam  the  afltunce  and  the  mar- 
riage-ring, steals  under  cover  of  the  table  to  touch  the  fat 
finders  spread  out  upon  her  husband's  knee;  he  is  smilingly 
r- "warding  her  with  that  delightful  air  of  proprietorship  which 
announces  to  the  most  obtuse  individual  that  the  lune  de  miel 
is  not  yet  thirty-six  hours  old. 

Then  comes  a  jovial-looking  Briton,  with  Mrs.  B.  and  one 
red-haired  damsel,  whose  elbows  appear  to  be  in  her  own  and 
everybody  else's  way.  She  stares  about  her  unconcernedly, 
flashing  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the  three  subdued  French 
maidens  opposite. 

Briton  pere  calls  for  his  beloved  "  Bass"  ;  Mrs.  B.  thinks  she 
will  take  a  cup  of  coffee, — that,  at  least,  is  sure  to  be  fit  to 
drink  ;  and  mademoiselle  declares  in  favor  of  lemonade, — 
'•that  is.  ii'yon  can  i:et  it  made  out  of  the  mil  tlilmj.  and  not 
bring  me  that  na>ty.  ;jav-y  -lull'  they  -ive  you  here  !"  «.he  cries 
in  i-xeciable  French,  glaring  detiantly  at  the  French  trio,  who, 


276  SOUCL 

not  comprehending  such  audacity  in  one  of  their  tender  years  and 
sex,  lif t  awe-stricken  eyes  to  the  maternal  parent  who  is  bridling 
austerely, — with  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  students  afterwards. 

Here  follows  a  popping  of  corks, — the  "pell-ell,"  as  the 
gar^on  calls  it,  and  the  limonade  gazeme  splutter  into  their 
respective  glasses,  while  papa  complacently  draws  forth  a  couple 
of  francs,  eying  with  thirsty  satisfaction  the  one  thing  that 
can't  be  spoiled  even  in  Paris.  Miss  of  the  auburn  locks 
frowns  gloomily  as  her  share  of  the  refreshment  is  placed  be- 
fore her,  and,  hastening  to  touch  it  with  her  lips,  instantly  sets 
it  down  in  unmitigated,  and  not  .silent,  disgust. 

"  It's  vile  !  it  always  is  !  I'll  not  drink  it !  Pa,  make  them 
give  you  your  money  back  !  Here  !  garrong  !  Apportez-moi 
la  monnaie  tout,  de  suite  /" 

"  Comment,  mademoiselle?" 

"  It  is  a  swindle  !     I  will  not  drink  it,  I  say  !  I  told  you  to 

make  it  of  the  fruit.    Take  it  away "    Here  she  gives  the 

glass-  an  angry  push,  and  upsets  not  only'it  but  also  the  cup  of 
coffee,  which  pours  a  scalding  stream  across  the  table,  causing 
papa  to  start  up  with  a  pair  of  dripping  knees  and  a  face  scar- 
let with  anger  and  mortification. 

An  irrepressible  titter  greets  the  discomfited  old  gentleman 
as,  with  his  now  trembling  daughter,  he  beats  a  hasty  retreat, 
followed  by  madaine,  who  sadly  impedes  his  movements  by 
the  vigorous  application  of  her  handkerchief  to  his  saturated 
nether  garments. 

Rawdon,  aroused  from  the  revery  into  which  he  had  fallen, 
flings  away  the  remainder  of  his  cigar,  glances  at  his  watch, 
and  rising,  strolls  off  in  the  direction  of  his  hotel. 

The  tahlc-d'hote  is  being  served,  and  as  he  dawdles  over  his 
coffee  at  the  conclusion  of  the  stereotyped  number  of  courses, 
he  wonders  what  he  shall  do  with  his  evening — his  last  evening 
in  Paris.  He  has  been  in  town  only  two  days,  having  lingered 
in  Koine  awl  Florence  just  long  enough  to  take  one  farewell 
peep  at  his  favorite  galleries  ;  therefore  he  has  no  engagements. 
He  is  scarcely  in  the  mood  for  paying  visits — and  Jamie  is 
still  in  Naples  :  quoifalre  ? 

He  decides  to  diess,  saunter  round  to  the  Club,  take  a  look 
at  the  papers,  pick  up  some  fellow  who  is  as  much  bored  as 
himself,  and  drop  in  at  "  Les  Italiens,"  or  one  of  the  theatres. 

He  has  fulfilled  the  first  part  of  his  programme,  and  is  cross- 


HE1XRIC1L  277 

ing  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  when  his  attention  is  attracted  to  a 
knot  of  people  gathered  together,  evidently  under  some  excite- 
ment, all  of  them  speaking  at  once  and  none  of  them  doing 
anything  in  particular.  "He  is  dead,  pauvre  vt'eiix"  Lyster 
hears  them  say.  "  Lift  him  !  Lay  him  down  !  Don't  dare  to 
touch  him  until  the  sergent-de-viile  sees  him  !  HB's  drunk, 
poor  devil!  He  isn't:  he's  dead  !  Diuntre!  he  looks  starved  ! 
Miffi-  diubles  !  he  moves  !"  These  ejaculations  arrest  the  young 
Englishman's  steps,  and  approaching  the  object  of  their  com- 
miseration he  requests  the  crowd  to  stand  back  a  little,  while 
he  raises  the  prostrate  form  of  a  man  who  appears  to  have 
i'.iinted  from  exhaustion. 

Something  in  the  frail,  shrunken  figure  and  the  long,  fair 
hair  falling  about  the  shoulders  sends  a  thrill  through  Lys- 
ter's  heart  as  he  supports  him  in  his  strong  arms,  imperatively 
ordering  the  group  of  curious  people  to  disperse  and  give  the 
]">nr  fellow  a  chance  to  breathe.  They  fall  back  incontinently 
at  the  appearance  of  a  scrgent-de-vilte,  and  in  doing  so  one 
of  them  picks  up  and  restores  to  llawdon  an  old  black  violin 
which  had  apparently  slipped  from  the  fainting  man's  hold ; 
the  bow  still  lies  within  the  relaxed  fingers  of  his  right  hand. 

"Is  he  dead,  monsieur?"  asks  the  sergent-de-ville,  leaning 
over  him  with  the  impassive  curiosity  which  comes  of  ex- 
perience. 

"  I  think  not.  Can  you  get  me  a  cab  ?  I  know  this  man  ;" 
adding,  as  the  officer  appeal's  to  demur,  "  You  will  accompany 
him  of  course ;  I  simply  wish  to  take  him  to  lodgings  instead 
of  the  hospital." 

•'  Pardon,  monsieur,"  returns  the  other,  after  dispatching 
a  gamin  for  ajiacre  :  "  monsieur  is  perhaps  not  aware  of  the 
rigidity  of  the  rules.  A  dead  man,  even  though  he  be  a 
inimp.  is  a  serious  responsibility, — this  is  a  case  for  the  morgue, 
1  am  afraid,  rather  than  for  lodgings " 

••  Vou  are  mistaken,"  llawdon  replies,  quietly;  "this  man 
is  not  dead.  See,  he  is  recovering.  Stand  back  !"  as  the  throng 
{.iv.-ii-s  forward  again.  "  Give  him  air:  it  is  only  a  fainting-fit 
from  fatigue."  Then  lowering  his  v>ii-e,  and  bending  over  the 
old  man,  lie  says,  gently,  in  the  (ierman  tonuue.  "  Do  you 
think  you  will  l»r  aide  to  walk  a  little  way?  Try!  Lean  on 
me — only  a  li-w  >tc-j,« 

But  the  trembling  limbs  refuse  to  support  him,  and  the  eyes 
•24 


278  SOUCI. 

close  wearily  as  Heinrich  sinks  back  with  a  feeble  moan.  Lys- 
ter  tries  in  vain  to  arouse  him  :  he  has  reached  that  stage  of 
exhaustion  when  the  mind  succumbs  to  the  inanition  -of  the 
body  ;  a  strange  numbness  has  dulled  every  sense ;  the  glazed 
eyes  have  lost  all  expression ;  the  chin  has  dropped  upon  his 
breast. 

There  is  no  time  to  lose,  Lyster  thinks,  as  he  assists  in 
carrying  the  wasted  form  to  the  carriage.  Entering  it  him- 
self, he  supports  Heinrich,  who  has  relapsed  once  more  into  in- 
sensibility, while  the  sergent-de-ville  mounts  upon  the  box,  and 
they  start  off  to  an  address  recommended  by  the  latter  as  "  a 
comfortable  and  quiet  lodging  overlooking  the  gardens  of  the 

Tuileries,  highly  desirable  for  an  invalid." 

*  #"#  #  *  *  # 

It  was  past  midnight  before  the  restoratives  applied  by  the 
keen-witted  wife  of  the  concierge  (who,  at  Kawdon's  entreaty, 
and  for  a  consideration,  had  installed  herself  as  nurse  until  an- 
other could  be  procured)  had  produced  any  decided  improve- 
ment in  the  old  man's  condition.  The  vital  spark  had  flickered 
on  the  verge  of  extinction  until  Lyster  llawdon  had  scarcely 
been  able  to  control  his  impatient  anxiety.  A  thousand  mis- 
givings tormented  him  as  he  sat  watching  throughout  the  night 
for  one  gleam  of  intelligence  in  the  vacant,  half-closed  eyes, 
listening  for  one  conscious  word  from  the  white,  drawn  lips, 
which  might  dissipate  his  dread  forebodings. 

"  He  is  dying  of  starvation  !"  the  doctor  had  succinctly 
stated,  after  he  had  examined  the  poor  old  man ;  and  Lyster's 
heart  had  sunk  within  him  as  he  heard.  Dying  of  starvation  ! 
And  Viola ! 

Unable  longer  to  bear  the  suspense  and  forced  inaction,  he 
had  passed  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  was  pacing  restlessly 
up  and  down,  when  the  handle  of  the  door  was  softly  turned, 
and  the  wife  of  the  concierge  appeared,  beckoning  him  : 

"  He  has  taken  a  few  more  spoonfuls  of  the  broth,  monsieur, 
and  seems  revived  a  little.  He  is  asking  for  something ;  I 
cannot  understand  him  :  will  monsieur  come?" 

A  moment  later,  Lyster  Rawdon  had  the  joy  of  seeing  the 
worn  face  light  up  as  the  mild  blue  eyes  rested  upon  him, 
while  Heinrich  stretched  forth  his  hand  towards  him  and  a 
murmur  of  recognition  escaped  his  lips.  Then,  as  he  hurried 
forward  and  grasped  the  thin  hand  extended  to  him,  he  heard 


HKI.MiK'H.  279 

the  old  man  articulate  with  difficulty,  "Liilchen—  int-hi  Lieb- 
cheit  !  where  is  she, — rnein  Kiml .'"  The  dull,  listless  look 
which  Lyster  remembered  as  its  habitual  expression  seemed 
to  have  been  burned  out  of  the  worn  face  by  the  passion  of  a 
yearning  anguish  ;  the  eyes,  grown  brilliant,  almost  fierce,  fast- 
ened themselves  upon  his  with  hungry  tenacity :  "  Where  is 
she,  mein  Kindchen  ?"  he  cried. 

"  I — I  do  tiot  know,"  stammered  Rawdon,  startled  by  the 
other's  vehemence.  "  You  must  tell  me  where  to  send  to  her  ; 
or  shall  I  go  myself  and  bring  her  to  you  ?" 

An  expression  of  agony  convulsed  Heinrich's  features  ;  the 
trembling  hands  lifted  themselves  to  heaven  in  piteous  appeal. 
"  He  does  not  know  !  Ach  Himmel!  and  I  have  sought  her 
vainly  so  long — so  long  !  Ach,  mein  Kindchen,  Gott  schiitze 
<ln:li .'"  And  with  a  long-drawn  sigh  the  old  man  covered  his 
face  with  his  slender  fingers,  through  which  the  tears  trickled 
slowly. 

Ruwdon  stood  silently  by  the  bedside,  a  prey  to  conflicting 
emotions,  pity  for  Heinrich  being  swallowed  up  in  the  great 
whirlpool  of  fearful  conjecture — of  terrible  doubt — in  regard 
to  Viola's  fate,  which  her  father's  heart-broken  cry  had  stirred 
within  him. 

What  can  it  mean?  Viola  lost — lost  in  Paris! — sought 
Vainly  by  her  father  whom  she  so  tenderly  loved !  What 
does  it  mean  ? 

Lyster  turned  to  the  table,  and,  seizing  a  glass  containing 
some  restorative  cordial,  he  raised  the  head  on  the  pillow,  and 
poured  a  portion  of  its  contents  between  the  pale  lips. 

"  Can  you  speak,  my  friend  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  little. 
"  Can  you  say  a  few  words  to  roe?  I  may  be  able  to  aid  you 
in  finding  year  Liebchen.  Is  she  here — in  Paris?  We  are 
l.oini.'  time  :  even  to-night  I  might  do  something,  if  you  would 
but  tell  rue  where  to  look  for  her !"' 

••Where?"  echoed  Heinrich,  feebly,  turning  his  tearful 
eyes,  filled  with  a  woful  hopelessness,  on  Lyster.  "  Where  f 
If  I  only  knew  1  It  is  now  five  long  months  since  she  left 
Yoiro<_'ti:i  !  Five  long  months  !" 

Kawdou's  heart  seemed  to  contract  suddenly.  "  Five 
months!  And  she  came  here — to  Paris — not  ulanr ?"  His 
voice  was  lowered  to  a  whisper,  trembling  a  little  at  the  last 
words :  a  passion  of  anxious  inquiry  therein. 


280  SOUCL 

"  No  ;  not  alone.  Nina,  the  hunchback Ah,  jvou  do 

not  remember  her !  N.ina  was  with  her." 

"Ah!  And  you  heard  from  her  sometimes?"  urged 
Lyster,  controlling  himself  with  an  effort  and  speaking  more 
calmly.  "  You  had  letters  from  her  lately  ?" 

"Nein;  not  for  many  weeks.  I  have  been  away  from 
Vogogna  since  my  mother  died :  the  house  was  desolate.  I 
came  to  find  my  Liebchen.  We  have  had  no  sunshine  since 
she  left  it ;  and  she  is  gone !"  he  concluded,  pathetically,  his 
voice  very  faint  and  low.  "  I  cannot  find  her  !" 

"/s  gone  ?"  cried  Ilawdon,  startled  once  more  into  agitation. 
"  Gone  !  How  do  you  know  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Gone 
where  ?" 

Then,  in  his  slow  and  disconnected  fashion,  Heinrich  re- 
lated his  sorrowful  story.  How  he  had  travelled  alone  from 
the  Alpine  valley,  blundering  desperately  all  along  his  journey, 
thereby  prolonging  it  unnecessarily.  How,  when  at  last  he 
had  reached  Paris,  he  bad  been  wellnigh  stunned  by  the  bus- 
tle and  noise  and  confusion  of  that  great  city.  How  he  had 
stumbled  at  last  into  the  Rue  du  Bac  (that  being  the  only 
address  he  had  ever  had),  to  learn  that  his  Liebchen  was  no 
longer  there,  and  that  her  whereabouts  were  unknown  to  the 
present  occupants  era  cinyuieme,  who  with  difficulty  restrained 
their  amusement  at  the  forlorn  old  man's  futile  attempts  at 
making  himself  understood  in  a  language  unfamiliar  to  him. 

And  then  he  told  him  how  he  had  gone  back,  with  despair 
in  his  heart,  to  the  fashionable  thoroughfares  of  the  city ;  sta- 
tioning himself,  with  his  violin,  daily  on  the  Champs  Elysees 
(where,  he  was  told,  everybody  in  Paris  was  wont  to  come  at 
some  time  or  other  of  the  day),  while  he  played  over  and  over 
the  old,  dearly -loved  airs,  with  a  faint,  desperate  hope  that  his 
Liebchen  might  recognize  some  well-known  melody  and  so 
be  drawn  towards  him.  How,  after  a  fortnight,  this  frail  hope 
seemed  to  dwindle,  and  his  heart  to  grow  heavier,  his  lone- 
liness more  intolerable,  while  his  anxiety  about  his  daughter's 
fate  preyed  upon  him  so  that  he  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep. 

Gradually  his  strength  had  begun  to  fail,  and  he  found  that 
he  could  scarcely  drag  himself  from  the  humble  lodging  where 
he  passed  the  night  to  the  great  chestnut  on  the  Champs 
Elysees,  under  whose  bare  branches  he  always  stationed  him- 
self throughout  the  day.  Of  the  occurrences  of  the  previous 


HEISR1CH.  281 

evening  he  remembered  nothing.  This  was  all :  told  with 
many  pauses  from  exhaustion  and  with  the  quaint  simplicity 
characteristic  of  him.  Lyster  sat  with  his  head  bowed  upon 
his  hand,  his  eyes  shaded  from  the  occasional  glance  of  the 
little  Frenchwoman,  who  listened  to  all  this  earnest  talk  in  an 
outlandish  tongue  with  ostentatious  unconcern. 

For  some  minutes  after  the  old  man's  trembling  tones  had 
ceased,  Rawdon  remained  silent,  with  covered  eyes,  pondering 
upon  what  he  had  heard,  and  revolving  many  questions  which 
grievously  tormented  him  in  his  mind.  Why  had  Viola  left 
Vogogna?  What  had  brought  her  to  Paris  without  other 
companion  than  the  girl  Nina  ?  Was  she — could  she  be  at 
that  moment  in  Paris? — or — had  she  married  Tonio,  as  he 
had  tried  to  accustom  himself  to  believe,  and  accompanied  him 
to  Naples? 

With  a  quick  movement  Rawdon  raised  his  head,  and,  turn- 
ing towards  Heinrich,  was  about  to  question  him,  and  so  end 
these  torturing  doubts,  when  he  was  checked  by  perceiving  that 
the  tired  face  had  a  new  expression  of  restful  ness  upon  it,  and 
that  the  sunken  eyes  had  gently  closed  in  sleep  as  calm  and 
self-forgetful  as  that  of  an  infant. 

Through  all  his  future  life  Lyster  never  could  look  back 
without  horror  upon  the  half-hour  that  followed,  during  which 
he  sat  motionless,  counting  the  crawling  minutes,  while  Nature 
doled  out  her  strength-restoring  prescription  to  the  weary, 
heart-broken  old  man ;  the  great  waves  of  unendurable  sus- 
pense rising  higher  and  higher  within  him,  threatening  to 
overleap  the  strong  restraint  he  had  placed  uport  himself. 

At  length,  with  a  start,  Heinrich  awoke,  and,  half  raising 
himself,  stared  wildly  about,  while  he  groped  with  eager, 
nervous  hands  over  the  coverlet  as  though  seeking  something. 

Turning  upon  Lyster  a  look  full  of  distress,  he  asked, 
faintly,  "Where  is  it?  Ah,  has  it  left  me  too?  Is  there, 
then,  nothing  for  me  but  to  die?"  the  hands  still  groping 
piteously. 

Instinctively  the  young  man  divined  his  wish,  and  quietly 
placed  the  old  violin  on  the  bed  within  his  reach.  A  smile 
of  ineffable  relief  broke  over  the  wistful  face,  as  Heinrich  drew 
his  recovered  treasure  close  to  him  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  it. 

"  He  should  have  some  of  the  bouillon  now,  should  he  not, 
madame?"  whispered  Rawdon,  with  admirable  patience,  to  the 

24* 


282  SOUCI. 

bright-eyed  little  woman,  who  was  zealously  effacing  herself 
in  a  shadowy  corner  of  the  room,  whence  she  watched  keenly 
every  look  and  gesture  of  the  two  men.  That  a  mystery  of 
no  common  order  enveloped  them  she  felt  sure, — something 
involving  murder,  bigamy,  or  a  forged  will,  at  least ;  but  De- 
siree  Michel  had  never  been  known  to  betray  either  curiosity, 
fear,  undue  conscientiousness,  or  any  other  inconvenient  weak- 
ness. She  sprang  up  with  alacrity  at  Rawdon's  bidding,  and 
fed  her  patient  with  as  much  tact  and  tenderness  as  though 
he  had  not  been  out-at-elbows  or  disreputably  connected  with 
the  violin,  which  she  could  not  help  eying  with  inward  dis- 
dain. She  was  quiet,  dexterous,  and  wary, — too  true  a  Pa- 
risian to  allow  herself  to  be  astonished  at  anything,  too  thor- 
ough a  Frenchwoman  to  be  unworthy  of  her  hire.  A  lavish 
liberality  in  the  matter  of  Kudos  inspires  confidence,  and  dis- 
penses with  explanations  as  with  other  formalities. 

All  the  same,  madame  regretted  that  the  conversation  which 
ensued  upon  Heinrich's  awaking  was  carried  on  in  that  un- 
couth tongue,  and  with  such  limited  pantomime  that  even  her 
imagination  could  discern  no  clue  to  the  secret  which  linked 
these  two  men — socially  so  far  apart — together. 

"  Tell  me  about  Liebchen,"  Rawdon  said,  simply,  when  he 
resumed  his  seat  by  the  bedside. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  IT    MAY   BE   A   LINK  !" 

.  ..."  So  all  my  mind 
Was  in  that  moment  made  aware 
That  henceforth  I  must  die,  or  find 
Fair  Yoland  with  the  yellow  hair." 

"  IP  your  Liebchen  is  in  Paris,  she  shall  be  found !"  Lyster 
had  assured  Heinrich,  when  his  faltering  tones  had  quavered 
into  silence  after  he  had  related  the  occurrences  of  the  past 
three  years.  "  If  Viola  is  in  the  world,  and  God  spares  my 
life,  she  shall  be  found!"  the  young  man  had  vehemently 
sworn  to  his  own  heart 


HEIXRICn.  283 

But  day  followed  day,  bringing  hourly  disappointment,  and 
Rawdon's  sanguine  hopes  were  growing  faint  through  inces- 
sant discouragement.  Having  telegraphed  and  written  to 
Lord  Harrowdale  postponing  his  return  to  England,  he  had 
set  to  work,  with  the  revived  energy  of  a  not  naturally  supine 
character,  to  fulfil  the  promise  he  had  made"  and  restore  his 
child  to  the  old  man  who  lay  so  patiently  watching  and  wait- 
ing. There  was  a  look  of  joyous  expectancy  in  the  withered 
face  each  time  llawdon  entered  the  room  which  smote  him 
with  a  keen  pang.  "Not  yet?"  Heinrich  would  say,  with  a 
gentle  sigh,  as  the  other  delivered  to  him  the  detectives'  re- 
port. "  Not  yet  ?  Well,-  to-morrow  she  will  surely  come  to 
me — to-morrow  !  Ach  I  if  I  may  but  live  till  then  to  see  her 
sweet  face  once  more  !" 

But  many  morrows  came  and  passed,  while  the  sands  of  life 
ran  faster,  and  the  hold  of  the  trembling  hands  grew  feebler, 
and  no  clue  whatever  to  Liebchen's  whereabouts  rewarded  the 
strenuous  efforts  of  that  astute  body  composing  the  secret 
police  of  Paris. 

The  suspense  and  anxiety  of  the  last  few  days  have  left 
their  traces  upon  Lyster  Rawdon's  face,  which  has  become 
lined  and  haggard.  As  he  sits  busily  engaged  at  his  writing- 
table  in  the  full  glow  of  the  afternoon  sunlight,  one  would 
imagine  he  had  but  just  recovered  from  long  illness.  Madame 
Desiree,  who  still  occupies  her  post  as  nurse,  watching  him 
furtively,  as  usual,  wonders  with  ever-increasing  curiosity  what 
the  secret  can  be  which  appears  to  be  gnawing  at  the  very 
heart  of  ce  beau  gar^on.  Her  eyes  glitter  strangely,  and  the 
well-shaped  nails  imprint  themselves  on  the  palms  of  her  dark 
little  hands,  as  she  mentally  chafes  at  her  own  stupidity  in  not 
having  long  since  made  herself  mistress  of  the  situation. 
Bah  !  it  was  that  German  tongue  that  had  foiled  her !  She 
had  all  her  life  had  a  fondness  for  mystery,  and  her  expe- 
rience had  been  an  exceptionally  favored  one ;  she  was  the 
fortunate  possessor,  lawfully  and  unlawfully,  of  more  secrets 
than  would  have  destroyed  the  repose  of  half  a  dozen  women 
(for  what  else  were  key-holes,  escaliers-derobfs,  or  self-sealing 
envelopes  invented  ?) ;  but  she  was  no  linguist,  and  all  Raw- 
don's correspondence  was  posted  by  his  own  hand, — all  his 
interviews,  save  those  with  the  old  German,  were  carried  on 
elsewhere. 


284  SOUCT.    • 

She  watches  him,  over  the  edge  of  her  book,  as  a  cat  does 
a  mouse,  while  he  folds,  addresses,  and  seals  his  letter,  drawing 
off  for  the  purpose  a  handsome  signet-ring  bearing  his  crest 
and  motto.  Then,  hastily  rising,  he  places  it  in  his  pocket, 
and  advancing  to  Heinrich's  bedside  bids  him  a  cheery  good- 
morning,  which  the  other  reciprocates  by  a  faint,  forced  smile 
more  pitiful  than  tears.  Madame  then  hears  him  go  into  the 
adjoining  room  (to  which  he  has  had  his  portmanteau  and 
other  belongings  removed  from  the  hotel),  and  a  moment 
later  the  click  of  the  porte-cochere,  and  sees  him  walk  rapidly 
down  the  street. 

Then,  with  a  glance  at  the  curtained  bed  where  Heinrich  is 
safely  shrouded  from  view,  she  glides  stealthily  over  the  waxed 
floor  in  her  list  slippers,  and  peers  anxiously  among  the  loose 
papers  scattered  over  the  writing-table.  Without  avail ;  not 
the  smallest  scrap  of  writing  meets  her  eager  glance.  In  the 
waste-basket,  which  she  had  carefully  placed  beneath  the  table, 
there  is  nothing  save  a  discarded  envelope, — discarded  because 
of  an  unseemly  blot.  She  extracts  it :  it  is  partly  addressed 
to  "  M.  Alphonse  Lefevre,  Chef  de  Bureau  a  la  Prefecture  de 
Police " 

"  I  knew  it !"  she  says  to  herself,  exultantly ;  "  I  knew 
there  was  something  criminal  going  on  !  Ah,  if  he  had  only 
asked  me  to  post  that  letter  for  him !  Well,  some  day  he 
will ;  they  always  do,  sooner  or  later.  I  can  wait."  Then 
she  covers  the  inkstand  and  wipes  the  pen,  setting  every- 
thing in  order,  and  placing  the  signet-ring,  which  Kawdon  had 
forgot  ten  in  his  haste  and  left  under  the  blotting-pad,  con- 
spicuously on  the  outside  of  his  letter-case.  As  she  does  so, 
her  eye  is  caught  by  the  device  on  the  clear,  amber-colored 
stone,  and  she  takes  it  again  in  her  hand  to  examine  it  more, 
closely. 

" '  Virtus  semper  viridis1 !  I  wonder  what  that  means?  '  Vir- 
tus'   Ciel!  I  have  seen  that  motto  somewhere;  and  this 

curious  bird  with  the  long  legs  and  long  neck  and  open  beak  ! 
Yes  ;  I  have  certainly  seen  it  before  ! — but  where  ?"  The  heavy 
eyebrows  meet  over  the  keen  eyes  for  a  moment.  "A  la  Lon- 
heur  !  See  what  it  is  to  have  a  good  memory  !"  her  face  sud- 
denly brightening.  "  I  remember  perfectly !  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  restoring  to  monsieur  some  of  his  property — 
perhaps !  I  wonder  if  it  can  have  any  connection  with  the 


285 

mystery?  Dame!  it  may  be  a  link  !"  Slipping  the  ring  in 
her  pocket,  she  resumes  her  book. 

She  finds  herself  too  restless  to  read,  however,  and,  after 
peeping  through  the  bed-curtains  and  ascertaining  that  Hein- 
ricli  has  sunk  into  tranquil  slumber,  she  speeds  down  to  the 
cabinet  below,  where  a  little  maid  is  deftly  preparing  a  ragout 
for  the  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette.  Dispatching  her  to  the 
apartment  of  the  sick  man,  and  bidding  her  remain  there 
until  her  return,  madame  ties  on  a  tasteful  bonnet,  and,  draw- 
ing upon  her  hands  a  pair  of  neatly-fitting  gloves,  sallies  forth 
to  secure  the  "  link"  which  has  already  find  her  imagination. 

Walking  swiftly,  she  soon  reaches  a  street  lined  with  shops, 
and  thronged  with  gay  and  fashionably-attired  men  and  women, 
who,  sauntering  idly,  laughing  and  talking,  somewhat  impede 
her  impetuous  course.  At  length  she  reaches  a  passnge  also 
shop-lined,  and,  if  possible,  more  closely  crowded  than  the 
street,  by  a  gayer,  more  laughing,  louder-talking  multitude. 
Pushing  her  way  through  with  a  gasp,  she  alights  on  the 
threshold  of  a  jeweller's  shop,  which  she  speedily  enters. 

There  are  two  or  three  persons  in  the  shop,  and  the  young 
lady  behind  the  counter  is  energetically  expatiating  on  the 
superior  merits  of  a  coral  necklace,  and  does  not  perceive  the 
last  comer,  who  stands  a  little  apart,  waiting  until  a  decision 
shall  be  arrived  at  on  the  coral  question  and  the  shop  empty 
of  customers. 

"  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me,  or  is  it  thou,  Desire'e  ?"  gayly  ex- 
claims the  young  woman,  emerging  from  her  "  coigne  of  van- 
tage,'' and  rapturously  saluting  her  friend  on  both  cheeks. 

"  Thine  eyes  never  deceive  thystlf,  Lcontine,"  returns  ma- 
dame,  a  little  dryly,  but  reciprocating  the  embrace  with 
effusion  ;  "  it  is  truly  I — myself!" 

"  And  what  brings  thee  so  far  from  home  thus  early  in  the 
day  ?"  demands  the  other,  curiously. 

"  I  had  a  little  business  to  attend  to  close  by, — at  the 
tailor's ;  for  my  poor  Ludovic  can  never  get  away  himself  in 
the  daytime ;  and  I  thought  I  would  just  drop  in  for  a  moment 
to  ask  thee  how  it  goes  with  thee." 

"Ahj  fd  /  not  too  briskly  ;  there  is  so  much  competition  in 

the  Passage;  still,  I  cannot  complain Can  I  show  thee 

anything  ?  We  have  some  marvellously  cheap  jet  parures " 

"  Ah,  thou  must  not  tempt  me :  thou  kuowest  my  weak- 


286  SOUCL 

ness Well,  I  might  look  at  them ;  that  does  not  cost 

anything." 

-"  Pardi!  I  should  have  been  a  millionaire  long  since  if  it 
did !"  returns  the  other,  laughing ;  "  for  the  hours  and  hours 
I  spend  showing  articles  to  the  fools  who  have  plenty  of  time 
on  their  hands  and  no  money  to  spend,  would  tire  the  patience 
of  a  saint !"  And  with  the  alacrity  of  long  habit  she  places 
upon  the  counter  case  after  case,  adroitly  mingling  more  costly 
ornaments  with  the  "jet  of  marvellous  cheapness." 

Madame  Desiree  is  loud  in  admiration,  and  after  pricing 
one  or  two  articles  she  becomes  enraptured  with  a  medallion 
of  black  onyx  ornamented  by  a  cross  in  small  pearls.  "  It  is 
a  beauty  !  a  veritable  darling !"  she  cries  ;  "  so  distingue,  so 
simple  and  yet  so  elegant !  (Jest  un  amour  !  And  the  price 
of  it Ah,  T  am  sure  that  is  beyond  me!" 

"  The  price  is  seventy-five  francs ;  but  to  a  friend, — let  me 
see.  Well,  I  will  say  sixty  francs — to  thee,  Desiree ;  but  I 
do  not  make  one  sou  on  it !" 

"  Va-t-en  /"  laughs  the  friend  ;  "  thou  dost  not  take  me 
for  an  Anglaise  or  an  Americaine,  I  hope  ?  I  do  not  expect 
thee  to  lose  money  on  anything  I  buy  from  thee  !  But  this 
is  too  high  for  an  ornament  which  is,  now  I  think  of  it,  un  peu 
triste  for  evening  wear,  vais-tu  ?  If  I  gave  a  good  price  for 
a  medallion,  I  would  prefer  it  to  be  of  gold, — something  rich 
and  dressy -looking.  Tiens  I  there  is  the  very  thing  !"  And 
she  points  eagerly  at  an  ornament  hanging  on  a  small  hook 
inside  the  glass  case. 

"  Ah,  that !"  replies  the  young  marchande,  not  offering  to 
detach  it, — "  that  is  not  for  sale." 

"And  why  not?"  demands  the  other,  sharply:  "is  it  in- 
tended simply  to  ornament  your  case  ?  Perhaps  it  is  not 
real." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is  real.  My  husband  says  it  was  made  in 
Rome  and  is  valuable.  See ;  it  is  very  heavy,"  taking  it  from 
its  hook  and  placing  it  in  Desiree's  hand. 

"  C'est  vrai!  it  is  massive ;  but  it  is  not  new.  How  came 
you  to  get  it?" 

Leontine's  face  grows  grave.  "  It  was  brought  here,"  she 
says,  "about  a  fortnight  ago  by  a  young  girl  who  needed  money 
sorely.  We  had  bought  many  little  pieces  of  jewelry  from 
her  at  various  times  and  sold  them  again ;  but  this  she  im- 


HEINRICH.  287 

plored  me  to  keep  for  her  until  she  should  be  able  to  redeem 

it  " 

"Enfin,  she  pawned  it,  and  thou  art  setting  up  a  little  mont- 
de-pn-tc  :  perhaps  it  pays  better!''  sneers  her  intimate  friend. 

"  Not  at  all !"  returns  the  marchnnde,  bridling.  "  I  told 
her  that  we  did  not  do  that  sort  of  business,  but  to  oblige  her — 
she  seemed  so  distressed  to  part  with  it,  poor  thing  ! — I  prom- 
ised to  keep  it  for  her  a  week  ;  after  that,  of  course " 

"  Didst  thou  give  her  the  full  value  of  it?"  asks  Desiree, 
who  has  been  intently  examining  it  inside  and  out. 

"  I  gave  her  one  hundred  francs  for  it." 

"A  hundred  francs  !" 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  worth  much  more,  Felix  says.  Observe  the 
workmanship, — it  is  very  fine  !" 

"  It  is  no  longer  new,"  reiterates  Desiree. 

"  No  ;  it  has  been  worn.  I  should  not  have  given  so  much 
for  it,  but  I  felt  sure  the  young  lady  would  buy  it  back " 

"  Young  lady  !  Young  ladies  who  sell  their  jewelry  do  not 
often  buy  it  back.  She  got  a  good  price  for  it •" 

"  Yes;  and  I  have  given  her  a  week  over  the  time  stipu- 
lated. If  you  fancy  it  so  much,  Desiree,  ma  foi, — I  will  not 
be  ill-natured, — you  shall  have  it !" 

"  Fifty  francs  ?"  insinuatingly. 

"  No,  no  !  I  really  cannot.  We  will  say  seventy-five, — not 
a  centime  less  ;  and  then  see  my  loss !" 

"  She  will  never  come  back  for  it,"  persists  madame,  push- 
ing it  aside  on  the  counter  and  taking  up  the  onyx  medallion. 
"  What  did  you  say  for  this — to  me  ?" 

"  Sixty."  ' 

"Ah,  it  is  too  much  !  Well,  I  must  be  going.  You  have 
some  very  pretty  things,  Leontine;  your  business  is  flourish- 
ing. I  congratulate  you !"  And,  rising  a  little  stiffly,  she 
makes  her  adieu. 

"  Now,  thou  art  vexed !"  cries  the  good-natured  Leontine ; 
"and  all  because  I  do  not  wish  to  get  a  scolding  from  Felix." 

"Bah!"  retorts  her  friend.  "All  the  world  knows  that 
thou  art  marchande  of  thy  shop !  It  is  true,  I  fancied  that 
bauble;  but  to  give  such  a  ruinous  price  for  a  thing  which  is 
marked  with  somebody's  crest — one  might  be  suspected  of 
having  stolen  it,  indeed — is  a  folly  of  which  I  am  not  willing 
to  be  guilty." 


288  SOUCI. 

"  Well,  do  not  go  away  angry.  We  will  see  what  we  can 
do.  Voyons  I  Thou  shalt  have  it  for  sixty  francs.  Art 
thou  content?" 

"  Fifty  would  be  enough  for  it ;  but  I  have  no  more  time 
to  stand  here  chaffering  ;  put  it  up  quickly,  I  pray  thee." 

"  I  was  sure  I  could  not  be  mistaken,"  says  madame  to 
herself,  as,  after  paying  the  sixty  francs  and  accepting  a  cordial 
embrace,  she  quits  her  friend  and  is  walking  with  firm,  springy 
step  homewards.  "  How  lucky  that  I  happened  to  be  in  the 
shop  the  day  Felix  was  trying  to  sell  this  very  medallion  on  his 
own  account, — and  for  fifty  francs  too !  But,  then,  the  party 
was  indifferent,  and  he  knew  it.  Now,  if  1  tried  to  buy  it 
from  him,  he  would  make  me  pay  a  hundred  ! — he  would 
suspect  me  of  having  seen  an  offer  of  reward  for  it — or 
something, — men  are  so  suspicious  !  The  crest  is  certainly 
the  same,  and  the  motto.  Perhaps  they  are  brother  and  sister, 
— or  husband  and  wife, — a  runaway  wife  ! — the  detectives  on 
her  track  !  Ah,  monsieur,  one  woman  is  sometimes  a  match 
for  the  whole  police  force!" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   SIGNET-RING. 

"  Sorrow,  there  seemeth  more  of  thee  in  life 
Than  we  can  bear,  and  live ;  and  yet  we  bear  . 

IT  has  been  a  damp,  depressing  sort  of  day,  with  a  fine 
drizzling  rain  falling,  and  the  evening  is  closing  in  early. 

Monsieur  Felix  is  thinking  seriously  of  putting  up  the 
shutters  of  his  shop  and  joining  his  wife  and  two  or  tl  ree 
vivacious  friends  of  hers,  in  the  little  parlor  up-stairs,  when  his 
intention  is  frustrated  by  the  entrance  of  a  slender,  poorly- 
dressed  woman,  who  approaches  him  with  some  timidity. 

"  Pardon  !  Madame,  is  she  not  here  ?"  asks  a  faint,  sweet 
voice. 


289 

"  Madame  is  not  in  the  shop  at  present.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing to  serve  mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Perhaps,  monsieur I  will  return  another  day, — when 

madaiue  will  be  here, — it  is  with  her "  The  voice  breaks 

here,  and  with  a  hurried  movement  the  woman  turns  her  face 
to  the  door. 

"  You  have  come  to  redeem  the  medallion, — is  it  not  so  ? 
I  know  all  about  it ;  but  if  you  prefer  to  see  my  wife  I  will 
call  her.  Stay  !"  Opening  a  door  at  the  back  of  the  shop, 
he  culls,  "  Leontine  !  Come,  then,  my  friend,  there  is  some  one 
asking  for  thee." 

Loon  tine's  bright  countenance  changes  visibly  as  she  recog- 
nizes the  pure,  pale  face  in  the  shabby  bonnet,  and  her  voice 
is  less*firm  than  usual  as  she  repeats  her  husband's  question  : 
"  Ah,  you  have  come  to  buy  back  the  medallion  ? — or  perhaps" 
— with  sudden  hope — "to  sell  me  some  more  ornaments " 

"  No,  madame ;  I  have  only  come  to  offer  to  pay  back  a 
portion  of  the  sum  you  were  good  enough  to  advance  me. 
See ;  here  are  thirty-five  francs.  I  will  bring  you  the  rest 
next  week.  I  was  only  paid  this  evening  for  my  work.  Pray, 
pray,  do  not  sell  the  medallion  !"  These  words,  poured  out 
with  tremulous  eagerness,  touch  Leontine  deeply. 

With  a  quick  flush  she  gently  pushes  back  the  little  pile 
of  franc-pieces,  saying,  with  an  effort,  "  I  am  sorry, — very 
sorry, — but  I  have  sold  it.  You  did  not  return  ;  I  waited  two 
weeks,  and  the  day  before  yesterday  a  lady  made  me  an  offer." 

Without  a  word  the  girl  gathers  up  the  coins,  and,  bending 
her  head  slightly,  leaves  the  shop. 

"Ah,  nion  Dleu  !  qne  je  suis  sotte .'"  exclaims  Leontine 
the  instant  the  door  closes.  "  Run,  Felix !  stop  her  !  bring 
her  back  !  I  utterly  forgot  the  letter  !  Quick,  I  tell  thee ! 
llun  !"  And  she  actually  pushes  him  by  the  shoulders  out 
into  the  Passage,  following  herself  a  few  steps  in  her  impa- 
tience. A  few  moments  later  he  returns  breathless,  accom- 
panied by  the  poorly-clad  girl,  whose  face  seems  to  have 
grown  a  shade  paler,  if  possible. 

"  Void,  mademoiselle  !  here  is  the  letter.  I  promised  the 
gentleman  to  give  it  you  if  you  should  ever  return  for  the 
medallion.  It  all  went  out  of  my  head  when  I  saw  you, — I 
was  so  sorry  to  have  sold  what  you  seem  to  value  so  highly. 
And  here,  nuidemoisell  -.  is  a  ring  which  the  gentleman  drew 
N  25 


290  SOUCI. 

off  his  finger  and  said  you  would  know  when  you  saw  it  who 

had  written  the BonDieu!  Felix,  give  the  child  a  chair ; 

she  is  going  to  faint !" 

For  a  few  seconds  the  girl  succumbs  to  the  death-like  faint- 
ness  which  seizes  her,  while  Felix  gallantly  chafes  her  hands, 
and  his  wife  removes  her  bonnet  and  fans  her  vigorously  with 
her  little  black  silk  apron. 

"It  is  nothing!"  she  murmurs,  as  the  heavy  white  lids 
raise  themselves  and  she  makes  an  effort  to  smile.  "  I  am 
not  very  strong,  madame,  and  I  have  come  some  distance  this 
evening.  Ah,  thank  you  !''  she  says,  gratefully,  accepting  a 
glass  of  water  tendered  by  Felix,  who  is  quite  moved  by  the 
youth  and  beauty  of  the  girl.  For,  divested  of  the  old- 
fashioned  little  bonnet,  and  with  her  neatly-braided  gold- 
brown  hair  and  delicate  spiritual  face  exposed  to  view,  Viola's 
beauty  is  of  such  a  type  as  is  seldom  seen  among  his  com- 
patriots. 

"A  drop  of  wine,  mon  ami"  whispers  Leontine,  and  her 
husband  once  more  vanishes.  Taking  advantage  of  his  ab- 
sence, the  young  girl  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
sobs  hysterically.  The  letter  and  the  ring  drop  to  the  floor. 
Leontine  stoops  to  pick  them  up,  saying,  with  tact,  "  The 
letter,  mademoiselle, — you  have  forgotten  the  letter  !  There 
may  be  good  uews  in  it !  who  knows  ?  Do  not  cry  ;  open  it." 

With  sadly-trembling  fingers  Viola  breaks  the  seal,  and 
through  her  tears  reads  these  words  written  in  English  : 

"  Your  father  is  in  Paris  and  ill.  It  is  his  desire  that  you 
should  come  to  him  at  once.  God  grant  you  may  receive  this 
before  it  is  too  late ! 

"  Come  to  No.  36  Rue  de  R au  premier. 

".LYSTER  RAWDON. 

"Thursday,  Oct.  7." 

Four  times  Viola  reads  and  re-reads  these  lines,  striving  to 
take  in  their  meaning.  At  last,  with  touching  simplicity,  she 
rises  to  her  feet,  and,  kissing  Leontine  on  the  cheek,  says, 
softly,  "  I  thank  you,  madame ;  you  have  been  very  good  to 
me,  but  I  must  go  to  my  father ;  he  is  ill !"  And,  turning 
away,  she  is  about  to  leave  the  shop  bonuetless,  holding  the 
open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Wait!"  cries  the  good  little  woman,  with  a  certain  ring 


11 El y RICH.  291 

of  authority  in  her  voice.  "  You  cannot  go  just  yet ;  you 
are  not  able  to  go.  Here,  drink  this,  and  sit  quite  still  for  a 
moment."  She  takes  the  wineglass  from  Fi'lix  and  puts  it 
to  the  white  lips  of  the  girl,  who  drinks  its  contents  mechan- 
ically. 

"  Rue  de  R !"  she  murmurs,  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  Where  is -that?  I  am  not  very  familiar  with  Paris.  Can 
monsieur  tell  me  ?"  She  lifts  appealing  eyes  to  Felix. 

"It  is  no  great  distance  from  here,  mademoiselle,"  he  an- 
swers, with  a  compassionate  glance ;  "  not  too  far  for  you  to 
walk,  if  you  were  not  ill." 

"  111 !  I  am  not  ill ;  I  am  quite  well, — only  a  little  tired  and 
— and — stunned !  Oh,  madame,"  turning,  with  a  sudden 
passion  of  pain  in  her  voice,  to  Le'ontine,  "  help  me !  My 
father  is  very  ill,  dying  perhaps,  and  asking  for  me.  Tell  me 
how  to  get  to  him  !" 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  him,"  she  replies,  firmly,  "  as  soon  as 
you  feel  strong  enough  to  walk  to  the  end  of  the  Passage. 
Felix,  thou  wilt  stop  a  fiacre  for  us  after  I  have  run  up  to  say 
au  revoir  to  my  friends.  I  shall  not  be  a  moment." 

Ten  minutes  later  they  are  driving  rapidly  towards  the  Rue 
deR . 


CHAPTER    V. 

"AM   I   TOO   LATE?" 

"  0  Music  !  Thou  wbo  iringest  the  receding  waves  of  eternity  nearer 
to  the  heart  of  man  as  he  stands  upon  the  shore  and  longs  to  cross  over ! 
Art  thou  the  evening  breeze  of  this  life,  or  the  morning  zephyr  of  the 
future  one?" — JEAN  PAUL. 

BEFORE  the  carriage  stops,  Viola  has  recovered  her  com- 
posure. *  White  and  tearless  she  follows  Leontine  through  the 
l><>,/>:-coch£re  into  the  little  apartment  on  the  ground-floor  be- 
hind the  shop,  where  Madame  De"siree  conducts  her  small  house- 
keeping. Fortunately,  they  find  her  at  home,  and,  after  a  sub- 
dued greeting  between  the  friends,  madame  ascends  to  the  next 


292  soucr. 

floor  to  announce  the  arrival  of  a  relative  of  the  old  man  who 
there  lies  dying. 

Viola  has  spoken  no  word.  She  feels  strangely  calm,  and, 
as  she  removes  her  gloves  and  bonnet,  smoothing  the  rippling 
hair  back  from  her  marble-white  face,  she  has  an  odd  feeling 
that  she  is  not  herself  but  somebody  else. 

Presently,  ma  dame  returns  and  beckons  her  from  the  door. 
"  Ah,  that  is  well,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  he  may  perhaps 
recognize  you  without  your  bonnet.  Come  !" 

Viola,  still  feeling  that  she  is  somebody  else, — somebody 
who  has  been  dead  for  a  long,  long  time, — follows  her  up- 
stairs. On  the  landing  Lyster  Kawdon  is  standing.  He 
advances  to  meet  her  with  severely-restrained  eagerness. 

"  Am  I  too  late?  Is  my  father  still  alive  ?"  she  asks,  in  clear, 
low  tones,  without  other  greeting.  Her  eyes,  unnaturally  large 
and  bright,  search  his  face  with  an  intensity  of  anguish  which 
seems  to  have  benumbed  her  to  all  other  impressions. 

"  He  is  still  living,  and  conscious,"  replies  Rawdon,  inex- 
pressibly shocked  by  her  appearance  and  manner,  and  making 
an  almost  superhuman  effort  to  control  his  own  emotion.  "  You 
will  find  him  much  changed;  are  you  prepared  for  it?  He 
has  been  very  ill,"  he  goes  on,  while  his  heart  seems  bursting 
with  the  mingling  of  love  and  pity  for  this  stricken  creature, 
who  answers  him  so  quietly, — 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  am  quite  prepared.     May  I  go  in  ?" 

He  cannot  resist  taking  in  his  the  cold  hand  which  hangs 
limp  and  nerveless  at  her  side ;  then,  holding  it  in  a  firm  and 
gentle  grasp,  he  leads  her  into  the  room  and  to  the  bedside, 
where,  raised  upon  many  pillows,  Heinrich  awaits  her  coming. 

The  room  is  well  lighted;  the  old  man  had  always  craved 
light, — the  glorious  sunlight,  the  golden  radiance  of  the  moon, 
the  brilliant  starlight ;  darkness  and  gloom  had  been  as  ab- 
horrent to  him  as  they  would  be  to  a  little  child.  As  Viola 
approaches  him  he  evinces  no  surprise,  but  into  the  tranquil 
face  comes  an  indescribable  tenderness.  Kneeling  beside  the 
bed,  she  presses  her  lips  again  and  again  on  the  wrinkled  hand, 
and  then,  drawing  his  arm  gently  about  her  neck,  she*lays  her 
head  on  the  pillow  near  him  and  murmurs  in  his  ear  the  pet 
names  she  had  given  him  in  childhood, — the  sweet,  simple, 
inexpressibly  tender  love-language  of  the  German  tongue. 

Heinrich  has  not  spoken.     Once  or  twice  he  has  passed  his 


HEINRICH.  293 

hand  lovingly  over  the  bowed  head  beside  him,  but  the  glad 
mnti'iit  in  his  face,  the  inner  light  of -perfect  peace,  need 
neither  gesture  nor  speech  to  express  their  fulness. 

Reluctant  to  intrude  by  word  or  movement  upon  the  exqui- 
site sympathy  which  appears  to  exist  between  them,  Lyster 
Manils  a  little  apart,  though  full  of  apprehension  in  regard  to 
Viola.  Her  seemingly  abnormal  condition,  the  unnatural  com- 
posure of  her  manner,  the  strange,  dream-like  expression  of  her 
eyes,  have  pained  him  deeply.  He  watches  her  with  keen 
anxiety  until,  presently,  the  cooing  murmurs  cease,  and  draw- 
ing nearer  he  sees  that  Heinrich  has  fallen  asleep,  with  one 
arm  twined  about  Viola's  neck,  the  other  stretched  across 
his  violin,  lying  close  beside  him.  Never  have  Lyster's  eyes 
rested  on  so  touching  a  group,  and  as  they  wander  from  the 
peaceful,  wrinkled  face  of  the  old  man  to  Viola's  pure-cut 
profile  and  transparent  fairness,  he  perceives  that  her  eyes 
have  closed  and  that  the  lines  of  the  slender  figure  have  sud- 
denly relaxed.  Approaching  cautiously  and  bending  over  her, 
a  spasm  of  fear  seizes  him  as  he  finds  that  she  has  fainted. 

With  infinite  tenderness  he  raises  her  in  his  arms  and  carries 
her  to  a  lounge  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room,  where  Ma- 
dauie  Desiree — having  successfully  parried  her  friend's  excited 
curiosity  and  seen  her  safely  off  the  premises — is  sitting  quietly 
awaiting  an  occasion  to  offer  her  services.  With  assiduous 
zeal  she  endeavors  to  restore  the  young  girl  to  consciousness, 
while  Lyster  lingers  near,  unable  voluntarily  to  put  even  the 
length  of  the  room  between  himself  and  the  gentle  face  he  has 
so  long  hungered  to  see.  He  can  scarcely  restrain  the  impulse 
to  catch  Viola  in  his  arms  in  the  excess  of  his  joy  when  her 
eyes  at  length  open,  and,  after  one  startled  glance  up  at  him, 
they  slowly  fill  with  glad  tears  as  she  recognizes  him  for  the 
first  time. 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God !"  are  the  only  words  which  escape 
him ;  and,  kneeling  beside  her,  he  gathers  into  his  the  thin 
little  hands,  covering  them  with  kisses.  She  is  trembling 
violently,  and  the  tears  are  coursing  down  the  white  cheeks, 
but  her  heart  is  throbbing  wildly  with  almost  unbearable  joy. 
For  the  moment  Heinrich  is  forgotten — the  sorrowful  years, 
with  their  burden  of  pain,  are  forgotten — in  that  ineffable  delight 
of  looking  once  again  into  each  other's  eyes, — of  clasping 
closely  once  more  each  other's  hands. 

25* 


294  SOUCI. 

Suddenly  Viola  starts  and  half  raises  her  head  to  listen, 
while  from  behind  the  curtains  of  the  bed  steals  forth  a  strain 
of  plaintive  sweetness,  and  the  notes  of  the  "  Vergissmein- 
nicht"  played  softly  but  with  unerring  hand,  fill  the  whole 
room  with  vibrating  melody. 

Madame  Desiree  moves  quickly  forward  in  alarm,  but  at  a 
gesture  from  Rawdon,  who  has  also  started  to  his  feet,  she 
resumes  her  seat.  Viola  sinks  back  upon  her  cushion  with  a 
bewildered  look  and  a  faint  moan,  while  Lyster  bends  down 
and  whispers,  "  He  will  recover  now ;  he  has  grown  stronger 
at  the  sight  of  you.  Many  days  have  passed  since  he  was  able 
to  hold  his  violin.  Listen  !" 

Breathlessly  they  listen,  while  the  mute  passion  in  both  their 
hearts  seems  suddenly  to  become  vocal  and  to  sound  in  their 
ears. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AN    IMMORTAL   SOUL   IS   PASSING   NOW. 

"  Tread  softly — bow  the  head^- 

In  reverent  silence  bow; 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 

Is  passing  now." 

"  THE  right  has  'triumphed  at  last !"  Heinrich  is  saying 
in  firm,  clear  tones,  as  his  eyes,  with  a  new  light  in  them,  rest 
calmly  upon  Viola,  when  she  returns  to  the  bedside. 

A  subtle  change  has  come  over  the  dying  mail  during  the 
past  hour :  the  dreamy  languor  habitual  to  him  seems  to  have 
dropped  away,  as  though  he  had  suddenly  cast  aside  a  travesty 
— assumed  to  protect  him  from  inquisitive  and  unsympathetic 
familiarity — of  which  he  stands  no  more  in  need. 

"  I  was  sure  that  the  day  would  come,  if  I  could  wait  pa- 
tiently," he  goes  on,  almost  cheerfully,  "  when  the  great  wrong 
which  has  been  done  thee  would  be  righted — and  I  should 
not  be  forced  to  leave  thee,  poor  little  heart !  utterly  alone  !" 


HEINRICH.  295 

"  Ah  !  do  not  speak  of  leaving  ine  !  I  cannot  bear  it !"  cries 
Viola,  her  voice  broken  with  sobs.  "  I  have  so  longed  for  thee ! 
I  have  been  so  desolate  !  I  am  alone,  my  father ;  my  poor  little 
Nina  has  left  me " 

-\Vhat!    Dead?" 

"  Yes,  alas !  We  were  doing  so  well,  and  she  seemed  to 
have  gained  health  and  strength,  when  suddenly — without 
even  a  day's  warning — she  was  taken,  and  I  was  left  alone — 
alone " 

"  Poor  little  one !"  murmurs  Heinrich,  caressing  with  his 
long  slender  hand  the  bright,  braided  hair :  "  poor  little  heart ! 
alone  here, — in  Paris  !'' 

"  And  my  letters, — they  must  have  passed  thee  on  the  road !" 
continues  Viola,  with  a  sigh.  "  Ah  !  how  terrible  it  was,  to 
go  day  after  day  to  the  post  in  vain  !"  She  cannot  repress  a 
shudder  at  the  remembrance  of  that  dreary  time.  u  And 
then  I  fell  ill, — I  think  from  despair, — and  when  I  was 
able  to  leave  my  room  I  had  not  one  sou  to  help  me  to  get 
back  to  thee,  my  father !  never  to  leave  thee  again,  come 
what  may!" 

Heinrich  smiles  sadly ;  but  his  voice  preserves  the  firm 
and  tender  tone  so  new  to  it  as  he  says,  "  Thou  canst  not  keep 
me  with  thee,  mem  fferzchen,  even  were  I  willing  to  stay;  but 
now  that  I  have  lived  \o  see  thee  again,  and  to  know  that  soon 
tlrou  wilt  be  with  those  who  are  able  to  make  thy  life  so  much 
happier  than  I  could  hope  to  do,  I  may  rejoin  my  darling  in 
heaven,  if  it  so  please  God,  with  a  glad  heart!" 

It  is  doubtful  whether  these  words  convey  any  other  signifi- 
cance to  Viola's  comprehension  than  the  avowal  of  a  willing- 
ness to  leave  her  to  struggle  on  in  the  painful  road  on  which 
her  feet  are  set.  With  a  low,  sharp  cry  she  casts  her  arms 
about  him,  holding  him  in  a  fierce  embrace,  as  though  she  de- 
fies Death  itself  to  rob  her  of  her  only  earthly  friend.  "  Thou 
ftniKt  not  die !  thou  wilt  not  go  away  and  leave  me !"  she 
wails,  passionately.  "  Oh,  let  me,  then,  go  too,  my  God  !  Take 
me  with  my  father,  I  entreat  Thee !"  And  her  streaming  eyes 
are  raised  in  piteous  prayer. 

"  Calm  thyself,  mein  Kindchen"  whispers  her  father,  much 
moved.  "  I  am  so  happy — so  happy !  Wouldst  thou  dim 
the  brightness  of  my  joy  by  thy  tears?  See!  here  is  the 
friend  to  whom  I  have  confided  my  treasure ;  here  is  one  who 


296  SOUCL 

will  guard  thee  and  love  thee  as  tenderly — more  tenderly  he 
could  not — as  I  could  do,  even  were  I  able."  Stretching  out  one 
hand  towards  Lyster,  he  continues :  "  I  have  told  him  all  my 
story  ;  he  has  the  letters,  and  the  certificates  of  my  marriage 
with  thy  mother,  and  of  thy  birth.  He  will  see  thee  restored 

to  thy  rightful  position,  and  then "     Here  the  voice  grows 

faint,  and  for  a  moment  naught  is  heard  save  the  subdued  sob- 
bing of  Viola,  whose  head  is  pillowed  on  the  old  man's  breast. 
Lyster  glancing  anxiously  at  Heinrich,  over  whose  face  an  ashy 
hue  has  spread,  is  about  to  administer  some  restorative,  when 
he  is  stopped  by  a  motion  of  the  hand  he  has  relinquished. 
Presently  he  resumes : 

"  She  was  sorry  before  she  died,,  mein  Liebchen  ;  thy  grand- 
mother bade  me  say  to  thee  that  she  was  sorry,  and  perhaps 
thou  wouldst  forgive  her.  She  was  proud,  thou  seest,  very 
proud  ;  and  though  we  were  in  the  wrong  and  perhaps  deserved 
it,  she  could  never  bring  herself  to  forgive  those  who  would 

separate  a  man  from  his  wife,  until  she  lay  dying Ah, 

it  was  a  cruel,  bitter  vengeance  they  took  !  and  it  broke  my 
darling's  heart :  but  I — who  alone  was  to  blame — was  punished 
even  more  severely.  I  was  allowed  to  live  /"  A  weary  sigh 
breaks  from  the  pale  lips,  and  the  faded  blue  eyes  have  a  far- 
off,  misty  look,  as  they  glance  back  on  the  loneliness  of  those 
vanished  years.  "  I  alone  was  to  blame  !"  he  reiterates,  after 
a  moment.  "  She  was  so  young — scarcely  more  than  a  child — 
and  I  (well,  I  had  been  Kapellmeister  for  years  before  they 
sent  for  me  to  come  to  the  Castle), — I  must  have  been  thirty- 
nine  or  forty,  when  I  began  to  teach  the  young  Baron  the 
violin,  and  it  was  nearly  two  years  after  that  (being  always 
sent  for  to  come  to  them  when  there  was  company  there, — to 
play  on  the  grand  organ  or  my  own  favorite  instrument), — it 
was  nearly  two  years  afterwards  that  my  lily-bud — the  gracious 
little  lady  whom  I  had  worshipped  silently  for  years — came  to 
me,  to  my  mother's  little  home  in  the  village,  and,  weeping 
sorely,  told  me  that  they  were  about  to  marry  her  to  an  Aus- 
trian noble,  whom  she  had  seen  only  half  a  dozen  times  in  her 
life  !  Du  lieber  Gott !  I  can  see  her  piteous  eyes  yet !  I  can 
hear  her  cry,  as  I  heard  her  then,  when  my  heart  seemed  to 
stop  beating  as  my  ears  drank  in  her  words  ! — '  Heinrich.  thou 
lovest  me  !'  and  she  stretched  out  her  little  hands  to  me.  '  Thou 
lovest  me !  I  know  it  well,  for  all  thou  hast  tried  so  hard  to 


HEJXRJCIL  297- 

hide  it.  Save  me  from  the  fate  to  which  they  would  condemn 
me !  save  me,  Heinrich  !  thou  art  my  only  friend !'  Ach ! 
poor  angel !" 

The  tremulous  voice  breaks,  and  for  several  minutes  the 
feeble  hands  cover  the  old  man's  face  from  view.  Presently 
he  resumes : 

"I  think  I  went  mad  then,  mcin  Liebclicn :  every  other 
consideration,  every  scruple  or  doubt,  seemed  to  vanish  the 
moment  I  knew  that  she,  whom  I  had  worshipped  secretly 

almost  her  whole  life,  was  willing  to  trust  me  infinitely  ! 

It  was  wrong,  wrong !  I  can  see  it  now  !  We  did  not  even 
try  to  reason  with  her.  My  mother  had  discovered  my  secret. 
Alas !  she  did  not  attempt  to  dissuade  her  from  any  madness 
proposed  by  me.  That  same  hour  the  following  evening  we 
took  her  away, — my  mother  and  I, — and  after  travelling  night 
and  day  for  nearly  a  week — I  was  so  fearful  of  having  her 
snatched  away  from  me — we  halted  in  a  quiet  little  village 
where  I  thought  to  hide  my  treasure.  Here,  after  some  weeks' 
delay. — prescribed  by  law, — we  were  married.  .  .  .  For  three 
months  we  lived  in  Paradise !  My  fragile,  pale  little  lily  bloomed 
into  fuller  loveliness  :  she  had  always  been  somewhat  too  silent 
and  quiet  in  movement  for  so  young  a  creature.  In  a  few  short 
weeks  she  became  gay,  and  bright,  and  gleeful  as  a  child.  She 
had  never  had  any  playmates  of  her  own  age,— being  the  only 
daughter,  and  her  brother,  who  was  several  years  older,  having 
joined* the  army.  Her  mother  had  been  a  widow  many  years. 
Life  at  the  Castle  was  very  dull  and  lonely  for  her ;  she  was 
growing  old  before  she  had  fully  blossomed  !  my  poor  lily-bud  ! 
I  shall  see  thee  again  soon,  lair  and  sweet,  brightening  the 
garden  of  our  Lord  !" 

There  is  the  sparkle  of  youth  in  the  pale-blue  eyes  as  he 
raises  them,  clasping  his  hands  together  in  ecstasy  at  the 
thought  of  that  reunion.  On  the  hollow  cheek  burns  a  fitful 
flu.<li.  and  the  whole  face  grows  transfigured  as  his  thoughts 
wander  back  for  a  moment  to  that  brief,  golden  season  when 
he,  too,  had  plucked  the  roses  of  Eden. 

Viola  watches  him  breathlessly.  Never  before  has  her 
father  made  other  than  the  vaguest  allusions  to  his  former  life, 
and  those  only  to  herself  and  under  strong  emotion.  Startled 
into  sad  inii-givin^s  by  this  sudden  uplifting  of  the  veil  si  in  ud- 
ing  his  past,  she  stands  trembling  and  sick  at  heart,  while  he 
H* 


298  SOUCI. 

resumes  his  story  in  a  voice  whose  feebleness  shows  that  his 
strength  is  waning  fast : 

"  Three  months  of  happiness,  and  then,  mein  Liebchen,  the 
blow  fell !  We  were  living  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  in 
a  little  house  which  was  shaded  by  trees  and  shrubbery  from 
the  view  of  passers-by.  There  was  a  small  garden  in  which  we 
took  great  delight :  our  evenings  were  always  spent  in  pruning 
and  planting,  and  embellishing  our  flower-beds.  During  the 
mornings  I  gave  lessons  in  music  to  the  few  pupils  I  had  been 
able  to  gather  in  the  village ;  while  my  wife  played  and  sang, 
or  flitted  about  like  a  fairy,  watching  my  mother  at  her  house- 
hold tasks,  which  she  insisted  on  performing  herself.  Some- 
times my  darling  would  come  out  to  meet  me  on  the  road. 
Ach!  how  often  I  chided  her  for  doing  so,  fearing,  I  knew  not 
what !  Alas !  my  presentiment  of  evil  was  verified.  One 
evening  I  returned  home  to  find  her — gone  /" 

The  last  words  are  scarcely  audible ;  the  flush  has  died 
away,  and  the  gray  pallor  is  spreading  over  the  sunken  cheeks 
again.  Lyster  raises  the  dying  man  in  his  arms,  while  Viola 
pours  a  few  drops  of  cordial  between  the  pale  lips. 

"  They  stole  my  darling  from  me  !"  he  continues,  after  a 
little ;  "  by  some  treachery  they  induced  her  to  enter  a  car- 
riage which  drove  away  instantly,  almost  before  my  mother's 
eyes !  I  never  saw  her  again.  She  was  under  age ;  they 
said  I  had  no  legal  claim  upon  her.  They  kept  her  shut  up 
in  the  Castle.  Their  lacqueys  drove  me  from  their*  gates, 
when,  in  my  despair,  I  ventured  within  them.  I  could  do 
nothing  ;  I  was  poor,  insignificant,  and  had  committed  a  crim- 
inal offence  !  They  were  the  proud  and  powerful  Von  Konig- 
steins.  God  forgive  them  !  they  drove  me  mad  !  For  weeks 
I  wandered  day  and  night  through  the  forest  that  stretches 
beyond  the  Castle-park,  calling  upon  my  darling, — cursing  the 
hand  that  had  robbed  me, — praying  for  death"!  Ach,  Gott  in 
Himmel!  I  tried  so  hard  to  die!  Poor  mother,  what  an- 
guish my  selfish  grief  cost  her  !  Sitting  in  her  lonely  cottage, 
knowing  not  what  had  become  of  me. — she  never  saw  me 
save  when  hunger  drove  me  to  her  for  bread.  I  wonder  how 
she  bore  those  terrible  nights, — those  nights  when  the  storm 
raged  and  the  wind  howled  like  a  thousand  demons, — when 
great,  sturdy  trees  were  riven  by  the  lightning,  which  mer- 
cilessly spared  me !  She  was  never  the  same  after  that, 


UEINRICIL  299 

— the  agony  and  bitterness  of  those  days  abode  with  her  to 
the  end." 

Two  great  tears  roll  down  the  thin,  white  face ;  Viola 
wipes  them  tenderly  away,  whispering,  "  Wait  a  little  ;  rest  a 
few  minutes;  thou  art  exhausted." 

"  No,  no  !  I  must  get  to  the  end.  It  is  time  thou  shouldst 
know  the  truth.  Give  me  a  little  of  the  cordial,  and  raise  my 
head.  Has  the  day  dawned,  mein  Liebchen?" 

'•  Not  yet,  my  beloved  !" 

He  moves  his  head  restlessly  on  the  pillow.  "  The  night 
has  been  long,"  he  murmurs ;  "  but  it  will  soon  be  over !  I 
have  not  much  more  to  tell  thee,  my  little  heart.  One  day 
I  learned  from  a  servant  of  the  household  that  the  Baron- 
ess had  left  the  Castle ;  she  had  taken  my  darling  away, — to 
Italy,  he  thought,  but  was  not  sure, — and  that  they  did  not 
expect  to  return  for  years.  Then,  I  believe,  my  heart  broke. 
I  do  not  think  even  when  they  brought  her  back,  in  less 
than  half  a  year,  dead,  that  I  suffered  a  keener  pang  than 
that  which  rent  my  soul  that  day.  Ach  j'a  !  my  heart  was 
broken ! 

"Then  one  night  they  brought  thee,  a  tiny,  wailing  babe, 
to  our  cottage,  and  told  us  that  thou  hadst  cost  thy  mother  her 
life.  I  laughed  aloud,  and  struck  the  man  in  the  face  and 
called  him  liar!  'It  is  her  mother  who  has  murdered  her  !' 
I  cried,  and  would  have  cursed  her,  had  not  my  mother  drawn 
the  man  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door,  leaving  me  alone 
with  the  helpless  babe.  I  remember  it  broke  into  a  wailing 
cry,  and  I  took  it  in  my  arms  and  hushed  it  off  to  sleep. 
When  my  mother  came  in,  she  smiled,  and  went  out  softly  to 
prepare  some  food  for  the  little  one;  then  I  knew  that  it  was  to 
remain  with  us, — that  they  had  disowned  it, — that  my  mother 
had  agreed  to  keep  it.  I  was  neither  glad  nor  sorry  at  that 
time,  nor  for  long  years  after.  I  think  I  was  indifferent  to 
everything,  except  music.  This  was  my  one  consolation," 
touching  tenderly  the  violin  at  his  side,  "  until  I  learned  to 
love  thee,  mcin  LiebcheMt" 

V'iola's  lips  twitch  convulsively;  her  heart  is  bursting  with 
sorrow  and  sympathy,  which  dare  not  find  vent.  The  old 
man  strokes  her  liand  gently  as  he  goes  on:  "We  went 
away  the  following  day, — my  mother  having  sold  our  little 
property,  the  home  where  I  had  lived  all  my  life, — and 


300  SOUCI. 

we  travelled  southward.  I  did  not  know  then  that  the 
Baroness  had  bought  it,  and  had  sent  my  mother  a  large 
sum  of  money  on  condition  that  she  should  never  see  or  hear 
of  the  child,  or  ourselves,  again.  Poor  mother  !  she  made 
a  solemn  vow  and  kept  it !  Three  years  afterwards  a  letter 
was  forwarded  to  her,  through  a  friend,  from  the  Baron  von 
Konigstein.  This  letter  (I  learned  long  afterwards)  contained 
the  news  of  the  Baroness's  death,  and  stated  that  she  had  ex- 
acted a  promise  from  him  during  her  last  hours  to  seek  out 
his  sister's  child  and  to  restore  to  her  the  heritage  of  which 
she  had  been  unjustly  and  unlawfully  bereft !  Yes," — the 
dying  man's  face  grows  strangely  stern  for  a  moment, — "  un- 
lawfully,— for  my  darling  was  co-heir  with  her  brother  of  her 
father's  large  estates,  which  were  entailed.  All  this  the  Baron 
fully  explained  in  his  letter,  requesting  us  to  communicate 
with  him  immediately.  The  following  day,  without  giving 
any  reason,  my  mother  removed  us  to  Vogogna,  where,  buried 
between  the  Alps,  under  an  assumed  name, — for  she  decided 
that  we  were  to  be  known  henceforth  by  the  name  of  Hiible- 
mann. — we  would  be  hidden  from  the  world,  of  which  we  de- 
sired nothing  save  to  be  forgotten  by  it.  I  made  no  objection 
to  anything  proposed  :  all  was  alike  indifferent  to  me,  so  long 
as  I  had  thy  angel-face  beside  me,  thy  little  fingers  clinging 
to  the  skirt  of  my  coat  as  I  walked.  Other  letters  followed 
that  first  one, — from  the  friend  who  alone  knew  of  our  change 
of  name  and  hiding-place, — through  which  my  mother  heard 
of  the  Baron's  earnest  endeavors  to  fulfil  the  solemn  vow  he 
had  taken,  devoting  himself  to  it  with  pious  fervor.  Ach! 
how  often  have  I  seen  my  mother  poring  over  those  letters 
alone  in  her  room,  feeling  a  sort  of  triumph  in  the  vengeance 
she  had  taken  into  her  own  hands  !  Poor  mother  !  how  blind 
we  are  !  how  impatient !  how  paltry  !"  The  sternness  has 
faded  out  of  his  eyes,  and  the  old  gentle  wistfulness — the  look 
of  prolonged  innocence, — returns  to  the  withered  face. 

Standing,  as  he  does,  on  the  threshold  of  the  other  world, 
all  pretence«and  sham  and  poor  human  pride  appear  to  him 
the  veriest  mockery  in  the  effulgent  glory  of  the  Enthroned 
Truth,  before  which  he  must  soon  appear, — whose  rays  even 
now  seem  to  play  about  the  weary  spirit,  filling  the  sad,  in- 
articulate soul  with  a  serene  gladness  and  bidding  the  mute 
lips  speak. 


HEINRICH.  301 

"  Tliy  grandmother  loved  thee,  Liebchen,"  the  feeble  vpice 
eontiiuics;  "  she  loved  thee  even  better  than  her  pride  and  her 
vengeance.  The  day  she  found  that  thou  hadst  fled  to  Paris, 
she  wrote  to  the  Baron  von  Konigsteiu.  There  was  some 
delay  in  his  reply, — he  had  boon  absent  from  the  Castle  for 
si niic  months, — and  my  mother  was  overwhelmed  with  grief 
and  anxiety.  Her  remorse  was  silently  borne,  but — it  killed 
IHT.  It  was  then  that  she  took  to  her  bed  and  refused  to 
move  or  speak.  The  day  after  her  death  the  Baron's  answer 
came.  I  opened  it ;  read  the  other  letters " 

Once  more  the  fitful  strength  gives  way,  while  over  the 
wan  face  creeps  the  unmistakable  shadow  of  Azrael's  wing. 
Lyster,  raising  the  drooping  head,  administers  again  the 
powerful  stimulant  which  has  almost  lost  its  efficacy.  Viola, 
white  as  a  snowdrop,  but  outwardly  calm,  chafes  the  cold  hands, 
laying  her  cheek  and  lips  upon  them  in  mute  caresses.  "Ah, 
it'  lie  would  but  speak  again  !"  she  says  to  herself,  in  an  agony 
of  yearning.  Presently,  "  Draw  the  curtains,  my  little  heart!" 
he  whispers.  "  I  would  fain  watch  once  more  the  golden 
gates  of  morning  open  to  let  out  the  sun.  Ach!  that  is  well, — 
the  light  is  breaking  at  last.  I  am  content,  niein.  Liebchen  ! 
Soon — very  soon — I  shall  be  in  the  presence  of  the  glorious 
Fount  from  whence  springs  all  light — beautiful,  life-giving 
light !  '  There  shtdl  be  no  night  there '  "  His  voice  fails. 

"  lAnd  tltt "ij  ni'i:d  no  candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun,  for  the 
Lord  God  giceth  (hem  light,'  "  continues  Viola's  low,  sweet 
tones. 

Heinrich's  eyes  turn  wistfully  on  Rawdon.  "  Have  I  told 
her  all  ?"  he  asks,  faintly,  his  trembling  fingers  touching  with 
indescribable  tenderness  the  strings  of  his  old,  black  violin. 

"  You  have  told  her  everything,  excepting  that  you  have 
talked  with  the  Baron  ;  that  he  is  here,  in  Paris;  and  that  he 
came  here  as  soon  as  he  received  your  mother's  letter,  deter- 
mined to  find  and  claim  his  niece,'1  returns  Lyster. 

But  there  is  no  reply  ;  the  strange  shining  eyes  have  closed 
in  the  slumber  of  weakness,  and  when,  a  moment  later,  Hein- 
rich  speaks  again,  it  is  evident  that  his  thoughts  have  strayed. 
••  •  Tiny  shall  hunger  no  more,'"  he  murmurs;  "'  neither 
/' hi  rat  mil/  inure.'  ''' 

Like  the  tones  of  a  silver  bell  comes  Viola's  refrain  :  "  ' For 
the  Lumb  which  is  in  (he  midst  of  the  Throne  shall  feed 


302  SOUCL 

them,  and  shall  lead  them  unto  living  fountains  of  waters :  and 
God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes.1 " 

An  expression  of  ineffable  happiness  glows  in  the  dying 
man's  face  :  the  eyes  are  raised,  already  prescient  in  the  dawn 
of  a  future  intelligence,  which  sheds  its  lustre  athwart  the 
childlike  mind,  whose  keenness  has  heen  dulled  by  years  of 
silent  suffering.  At  last  the  guileless  soul  shines  out  through 
the  windows  so  long  clouded  by  the  mist  of  tears. 

The  faint  rose  and  violet  of  dawn  are  paling  before  the 
golden  glory  flooding  the  eastern  sky,  visible  over  the  tree- 
tops  of  the  Tuileries  gardens  opposite.  Madame  Desiree  steps 
noiselessly  about,  extinguishing  the  candles  burning  low  in 
their  sockets. 

Heinrich  draws  nearer  to  him  his  violin,  and,  pressing  his 
lips  to  its  well-worn  surface,  murmurs,  almost  inaudibly, — 

"  Lebewohl !  Lebewohl!  soul  of  my  soul !  Thou  hast  kept 
my  heart  from  growing  bitter !  thou  hast  talked  to  me  of  her, 
— thou  hast  carried  my  thoughts  to  her  in  the  silence  and 
solitude  of  night,  when  the  moonbeams  lay  cold  and  bright 
on  Monte  Rosa, — ach  !  so  cold  and  bright,  they  made  my 
heart  ache !"  Then  eagerly  to  Lyster,  "  Thou  wilt  let  no 
strange  hand  touch  it, — thou  wilt  lay  it  by  my  side  when  all 
is  over?"  As  the  other  bends  his  head  in  silent  response, 
the  faint  voice  wanders  on,  dreamily,  "  Karl  von  Kbnigstein 
is  a  good  lad, — a  bit  mischievous,  but  with  a  heart  of  gold ! 
I  have  no  fear  in  leaving  thee,  niein  Kind :  I  would  that  he 
could  see  thee  before  I  go " 

"  I  am  here." 

The  grave,  deep  voice  seems  to  compel  Viola's  yearning 
gaze  from  her  father's  face  to  the  direction  whence  it  proceeds. 
A  tall,  soldierly-looking  man,  with  iron-gray  beard,  wearing  a 
short  military  cloak,  and  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  stands, 
holding  aside  the  curtain  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  As  his  eyes 
fall  upon  Viola's  sweet  face  he  starts  perceptibly.  "  Berthe  !" 
he  involuntarily  exclaims. 

"  Ach  ja,  Berthe !"  smiles  Heinrich.  "  And  that  sonata,  Mas- 
ter Karl,  have  you  practised  it  ?  Ah,  you  are  idle — idle 

There  will  be  music  there,  they  say,"  wistfully  raising  his  eyes 
above  them,  all  to  the  bit  of  swift-brightening  sky.  "  Or, 
may -be,  no  need  for  what  we  call  music  in  the  midst  of  divine 
harmony — and  there  shall  be  '  no  need  of  the  sun,  neither  of 


HEIXRICH.  303 

tin  ii»i(>ii.  f'i  shine  in  it :  for  the  glory  of  God  doth  lighten  ft, 
and  the  L<nnb  is  the  liyht  thereof!'  '  The  last  word  sinks 
away  in  whisper,  as  the  sun  bursts  forth,  filling  the  room  with 
its  radiance,  bathing  the  pallid  face  resting  so  peaceably  on 
Lystor's  shoulder  with  its  warm  glow,  and  sending  a  blended 
thrill  of  hope  and  fear  through  Viola's  heart. 

"  Hsh  !"  she  whispers,  holding  up  a  warning  finger,  as  the 
Baron  starts  suddenly  forward.  "  Hsh  !  he  is  sleeping ;  that 
death-like  look  has  gone;  do  not  move,  or  speak  !  I  tell  you, 
he  is  sleeping !" 

Ay,  he  sleeps ;  but  it  is  the  "  sleep"  which  "  He  giveth 
His  beloved"  that  has  lent  that  sad  face  its  look  of  infinite 
beatitude,  of  divine  repose. 

The  golden  gates  of  the  morning  have  opened,  and  a  new 
soul  has  entered  in  ;  the  night  has  been  long  and  very  dark, 
but  the  day  has  broken  at  last. 


BOOK    VIII. 

CYPEESS. 


CHAPTER    I. 
"LE  VIDE  ET  LE  N£ANT." 

"On  trouve  au  fond  de  tout  le  vide  et  le  ncant." — BOSSUET. 

"  THERE  is  no  reason  that  I  know  of  why  I  should  not  see 
some  of  the  fun.  I  am  not  a  soldier,  to  be  sure;  but  which 
among  the  members  of  Garibaldi's  staff  were  soldiers  six 
months  ago?" 

Tonio  smiles :  "  True :  some  of  them  -wielded  no  other 
weapon  than  the  pen ;  some,  indeed,  followed  the  plough,  and 
one,  I  have  been  told,  fingered  the  yard-stick  ;  and  I  have  no 
inclination  to  dissuade  you  from  joining  us, — I  only  thought  it 
right  to  tell  you  that  the  expedition  will  be  full  of  danger." 

"  Tant  mievx  /"  interrupts  Noyes  Jamieson,  flushing  with 
eagerness.  "  I  am  actually  dying  for  lack  of  a  sensation  :  this 
promises  something;  and  defeat  is  impossible,  is  it  not?"  he 
adds,  smiling  slightly. 

"  We  have  some  reason  to  be  sanguine,  at  all  events,"  re- 
turns Tonio,  quickly.  "  Garibaldi's  name  is  in  itself  an  armed 
legion ;  before  it,  what  were  the  fortresses  on  the  Calabrian 
coast  ?  the  citadels  of  the  Capital  ?  the  fifty  thousand  troops 
between  Reggio  and  Salerno  ?  And  has  not  the  Neapolitan 
fleet  greeted  it  with  the  salute  of  victory  in  this  very  bay  of 
Naples?" 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,  my  dear  fellow  !  I  am  as  willing  as 
you  can  be,  to  bow  down  and  worship  the  prowess  of  that 
mighty  arm, — only,  one  can't  expect  that  sort  of  luck  forever, 
don't  you  know?  I  had  hoped  there  would  be  something  to 
stir  the  blood  a  bit  in  this  dash  over  the  Apennines." 
304 


CFPRESS.  305 

Tonio  looks  grave :  "  There  will  be ;  don't  be  afraid  of 
dull  work  there.  If  your  life  is  of  service  to  any  one,  or  of 
value  to  yourself,  you  had  better  not  put  on  the  red  shirt  just 
now ;  that  is,  if  the  general  grants  the  demand  of  the  rebels 
in  Bojano." 

Jamie  is  lighting  a  cigarette  :  his  hand  is  perfectly  steady, 
but  the  color  deepens  in  the  smooth  girlish  cheek  and  the 
brown  eyes  flash  suddenly,  as  he  takes  a  puff  or  two  before 
replying,  in  his  customary  trainante  lisp, — 

"  Ah — there  is  no  one,  I  believe,  to  whom  I  owe  allegiance, 
or  who  values  my  life  quite  as  highly  as  I  do  myself;  still,  I 
shall  go  all  the  same,  if  you  will  have  me." 

Few  would  have  suspected  as  they  looked  at  the  unruffled 
brow  and  the  bright  eyes  with  their  sunny  bonhommie — as 
they  listened  to  the  light  laugh  and  gay  badinage  which  issued, 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  day,  from  those  gold-fringed  lips — 
that  an  hour  before  his  conversation  with  Tonio  this  man  had 
staggered  forth  from  Souci's  presence  cursing  the  day  of  his 
birth, — feeling  that  the  world,  which  had  hitherto  appeared  a 
sufficiently  desirable  one,  had  suddenly  been  transformed  into 
a  howling  wilderness,  through  which  he  had  been  doomed  to 
wander  up  and  down,  in  vexation  and  weariness  of  spirit, 
henceforth. 

For  Jamie  had  come  at  last,  after  much  mental  perturba- 
tion, to  believe  that  life  held  but  one  really  good  thing  for  him, 
and  timidly,  with  more  modest  confusion  than  he  would  have 
felt  in  approaching  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal,  he  had  laid 
his  heart,  his  fortune,  and  his  old  and  honorable  name  at  the 
sorceress-feet  of  the  woman  who  looked  upon  him  simply  as 
an  (imant  pour  rire. 

Souci  had  dealt  very  gently  with  him  ;  her  own  heart  was 
too  sore  at  this  time  to  permit  her  to  dismiss  him  with  the 
cool,  good-humored  persiflage  and  slightly-veiled  satire  she 
generally  found  effectual  in  such  cases.  The  mocking  spirit 
had  gone  out  of  her,  and  there  was  a  weary  look  of  pain  in 
the  great  eyes  and  a  profound  sadness  in  the  half-smile  curv- 
ing the  proud  lips,  as  she  said,  in  that  wonderful,  vibrating 
voice  of  h«rs,  "  I  have  never  been  sorry  for  any  one  before, 
but  I  am  afraid  I  am  sorry  for  you,  mon  cher.  You  look  as 
if  you  had  been  born  to  live  always  in  the  sunshine,  and  just 

26* 


306  SOUCL 

now  you  are  trying  to  believe  that  you  are  very  miserable. 
Nay,"  as  he  passionately  interrupted  her,  "  I  do  not  doubt  that 
you  love  me  as  you  say  ;  but  that  will  pass,  mon  ami ;  be  sure 
you  will  recover  in  time,  and  congratulate  yourself  that  you 
have  not  bound  up  your  happiness  with  such  a  moody,  fan- 
ciful, exacting  bundle  of  contradictions  as  myself.  Now,  go 
away  and  forget  me  ;  you  did  not  know  I  existed,  a  few 
months  ago  ;  it  will  be  easy.  I  am  not  very  happy,  but  I  shall 
be  even  less  so  if  I  find  that  I  have  clouded  your  bright  face !" 
And  then,  still  with  that  sad  little  smile  and  one  haunting  look 
from  the  melancholy  eyes,  she  had  left  him,  standing  speech- 
less, staring  like  a  madman  on  the  ground  where  she  had 
stood. 

For  a  few  moments  Jamie  remained  rooted  to  the  spot, 
while,  in  less  time  than  would  speed  a  ball  from  the  cannon's 
mouth  to  its  murderous  aim,  the  hope  that  had  sustained  him 
died  silently.  Before  the  tones  of  her  voice  had  ceased  to 
vibrate  in  his  ear  he  knew  that  he  had  listened  to  his  doom  ; 
that  never  again  would  the  words  he  had  spoken  to  this  woman 
fall  from  his  lips ;  that  never  again  would  life  be  the  merry, 
joyous  thing  he  had  heretofore  found  it. 

He  put  up  one  hand  dizzily  to  the  soft-brown  eyes,  from 
whence  the  glad  sparkle  had  been  struck  fly  sudden  anguish, 
and  tried  to  smile ;  but  the  muscles  of  his  mouth  were  strangely 
rigid,  and  the  lips  only  accomplished  a  pitiful  quiver. 

That  night,  and  far  into  the  morning  hours  of  the  succeed- 
ing day,  Jamie's  melodious  tenor  led  the  chorus  in  convivial 
song  at  a  banquet  given  by  him  to  his  new  comrades,  the 
officers  of  Garibaldi's  staff. 

Had  the  spirit  of  his  dead  mother  been  permitted  to  revisit 
this  mundane  sphere,  it  would  assuredly  have  turned  sorrow- 
ing away  from  the  purple-visaged,  wild-eyed  bacchanal  who 
carried  the  revelry  to  the  very  verge  of  madness. 

"  The  Philistines  be  upon  thee  !"  cried  that  thrice-treach- 
erous wanton  in  the  valley  of  Sorek,  after  Samson,  having 
yielded  to  her  enticements,  "  showed  her  all  his  heart ;"  and 
"  they  took  him  and  put  out  his  eyes."  But  does  not  their 
vengeance  pale  before  the  horrors  of  moral  and  spiritual  blind- 
ness following  the  betrayal  of  man  to-day  ? 

The  light  burned  dimly  throughout  the  night  in  Souci's 


CYPRESS.  307 

bedroom,  where  a  woman  kept  solitary  vigil,  communing  with 
her  own  heart  in  sore  unrest ;  but  not  a  thought  of  Jamie 
crossed  her  mind. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

THE   TIGER-CUB    HAS    ATTAINED    ITS    FULL   GROWTH. 

"  Why  give  yon  me  this  shame  ? 
Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride 
And  hug  it  in  my  arms !'' 

GARIBALDI,  in  his  poncho  and  with  his  foulard  about  hig 
shoulders,  is  listening  somewhat  wearily  to  the  pertinacious 
appeal  of  a  major  of  the  national  guard  of  one  of  the  prov- 
inces. This  man  has  been  pleading  for  additional  troops 
wherewith  to  quell  an  insurrection  of  the  cnfones  in  Bojano, 
and  he  has  pleaded  long,  earnestly,  and — unsuccessfully. 
During  his  rambling  discourse,  Garibaldi,  in  imagination,  is 
besieging  Capua,  as  he  plays  absently  with  a  pair  of  compasses 
on  the  map  outstretched  before  him.  He  is  suddenly  recalled 
to  himself  by  the  words,  "  You  refuse,  then,  Eccellenza  ?  You 
sacrifice  then  Matese  and  Molise  ?-^perhaps  even  it  may  cost 
you  the  Abruzzi !" 

"  Your  persistency  will  cost  me  my  patience  !''  he  returns, 
with  a  flash  in  the  blue  eyes.  Thrusting  his  hat  on  his  head, 
the  Dictator  cuts  short  the  interview  by  turning,  with  a  smile 
of  welcome,  to  his  favorite  aide,  who  at  that  moment  enters. 

"  Get  my  spy-glass,  my  son." 

"  I  have  it,  generate" 

"  Good  !  We  shall  start,  then,  at  once !"  And,  bowing 
out  the  discomfited  major,  Garibaldi  lays  his  hand  with  a 
caressing  gesture  on  Tonio's  shoulder.  "  Should  I  think  it 
necessary  to  send  relief  to  Bojano,  figlio  mio,  you  will  accom- 
pany General  N ;  but  you  shall  be  back  in  time  for 

Capua,  never  fear  !"  smiling  brightly,  as  he  sees  the  young 
man's  face  fall. 


308  SOUCI. 

"  Thanks,  general !" 

Ten  minutes  later  they  are  in  the  train  speeding  towards 
Santa  Maria  ;  thence  in  a  carriage  to  Sant'  Angelo,  and  up  the 
mountain  on  foot.  From  its  summit  they  gaze  down  upon  the 
beautiful  valley  through  which  the  Volturno  glides  along  under 
the  sun-rays  like  an  undulating  silver  serpent. 

Garibaldi,  silent  and  absorbed,  turns  his  spy-glass  from  point 
to  point,  watching  the  movements  of  the  enemy,  while  he  plans 
the  passage  across  the  river. — intending  to  fling  himself  be- 
tween Capua  and  Gaeta,  divide  the  Bourbon  army, — defeat  it 
on  the  Volturno  to-day,  on  the  Garigliano  to-morrow, — per- 
fectly unconscious  that  his  red  shirt  has  become  a  target  for 
the  carbines  of  the  Bourbon  soldiers.  From  thg  opposite  bank 
of  the  river  a  steady  fire  is  being  directed  towards  the  two  red 
spots  gleaming  amidst  the  verdure  of  their  entourage.  Tonio 
is  about  to  arouse  his  abstracted  companion  to  his  danger,  when 
a  bullet  whistling  by  Garibaldi's  ear  saves  him  the  trouble. 

"  Che  diavolo  /"  he  exclaims,  raising  his  hand  as  though  a 
troublesome  fly  had  buzzed  in  his  face;  and,  without  changing 
his  position,  he  calmly  resumes  his  survey  through  the  glass. 
Tonio,  with  a  smile,  quietly  places  himself  in  front  of  him. 
Presently  the  glass  is  again  lowered.  "  Why  do  you  stand  in 
my  range  of  vision  ?''  he  asks,  a  trifle  impatiently.  "  You  are 
far  from  being  transparent!" 

"  I  know  it,  generate;  it  is  that  I  may  not  live  to  see  you 
wounded." 

Garibaldi  flashes  a  quick  glance  at  him.  "Go  down,"  he 
says,  in  his  gentlest  tones,  pointing  to  a  corps  of  cavalry,  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  infantry,  marching  towards  them,  "  and  order 
our  largest  pieces  to  fire  on  those  squadrons." 

"  And  you,  generale  mio  /"  hesitates  Tonio,  flushing  at  his 
own  temerity.  "  Do  you  not  perceive  your  danger?" 

"  Obey  !"  The  word  rings  out  with  its  irresistible  tone  of 
command,  though  the  lips  wear  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness. 

Tonio  turns  sadly  away. 

"  FigUo  mio!" 

He  is  half-way  down  the  mountain-side :  a  bound  or  two,  a 
spring,  and  he  is  by  his  side  again. 

"  Generate  ? " 

"  God  bless  thee,  my  son,  forever !"  And  Garibaldi's  hand 
rests  for  a  moment  on  the  young,  bowed  head. 


CrFRESS.  309 


"  Now,  go !" 
*  * 


The  following  morning,'  as  the  devout  are  dispersing  after 
matins  from  Sant'  Angelo  Maggiore,  two  women  closely  veiled 
linger  about  the  entrance,  or  pace  slowly  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  cathedral.  There  is  a  marked  contrast  between  them : 
the  one  tall,  slender,  lithe,  with  haughty  caninuo  and  im- 
perious step;  the  other  heavily  built,  square,  awkward  in  gait, 
plebeian  in  every  gesture. 

"  Jeanne,"  whispers  the  taller  figure,  bending  towards  her 
companion,  "  are  you  certain  that  he  must  pass  this  way  to 
reach  the  general's  headquarters  ?" 

"  So  Pietro  said,  mam'selle.  But  it  grows  late ;  perhaps 
there  will  not  be  time  ;  ces  messietirs  received  their  orders  only 
last  night." 

"  How  many  of  the  general's  staff  are  to  go  ?  Did  Pietro 
say  ?" 

"  Fourteen.  Ah  !  grace  a  Di'eu  !  le  void!'1  And  Jeanne 
discreetly  falls  back  as  Tonio  rapidly  crosses  the  Place  towards 
them. 

"  Monsieur !"    Souci  can  scarcely  recognize  her  own  voice. 

"Signora!" 

"  It  is  I "  She  raises  her  veil  and  discovers  a  face 

which  has  grown  wan  and  pallid  during  the  suspense  and 
anxiety  of  the  past  few  hours. 

"  Monsieur,  I  would  say  a  word  to  you "  she  begins. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  mademoiselle," — glancing  at  his 
watch, — "  for  ten  whole  minutes,  which  will  leave  me  just  the 
same  amount  of  time  to  say  farewell  to  the  general."  He 
tries  to  speak  lightly,  though  a  presentiment  of  what  is  coming 
shakes  him  not  a  little. 

"Then  it  is  true!"  she  cries,  forgetting  her  timidity,  and 
lifting  her  eyes,  tearless,  but  full  of  repressed  anguish,  to  his 
face.  "  It  is  true  that  you  have  been  detached  from  Gari- 
baldi's staff  to  accompany  N to  Bojano  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  he  answers,  quietly ;  "  and  why  not?'1 

"  Why  not?"  with  an  effort  to  speak  as  calmly  as  him- 
self. •'  Because  it  is  a  futile  waste  of  life  !  I  have  heard  from 
your  brother  officers  that  it  w^s  because  this  expedition  would 
entail  .such  frightful  loss  of  life  that  Garibaldi  refused  to  send 
aid  to  these  madmen " 


310  SOUCI. 

"  The  danger  has  no  doubt  been  overrated,"  he  returns, 
smiling  a  little  to  reassure  her.  "  At  all  events,  the  general 
expects  us  to  return  almost  immediately." 

"  Return  !"  breaks  forth  Souci,  her  calmness  again  forsaking 
her.  "  You  will  never  return  !  I  tell  you,  you  do  not  know 
the  danger :  there  are  swarms  of  those  wretched  cafones  on  the 
mountains — lining  the  road — ambushed  everywhere, — traitors, 
cowards,  devils  without  mercy !  Would  Garibaldi  have  you 
butchered  ?"  The  great  eyes  are  aflame ;  the  passionate  en- 
treaty of  the  voice  thrills  him  as  she  continues,  in  her  most 
winning  tones,  "  Ah !  monsieur,  there  are  others  who  could 
fill  your  place.  Yield  it  to  them  !  Think  of  your  father — of 
Garibaldi,  who  loves  you " 

A  spasm  of  pain  contracts  Tonic's  features :  his  voice  is 
harsh  as  he  replies,  "  What !  would  you  have  me  yield  to 
another  a  danger  I  would  not  share  ?  Do  you  counsel  me  to 
turn  coward  ?  Ah  !  that  is  not  like  you,  mademoiselle  !"  Then, 
with  an  effort,  more  calmly,  "  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  go ; 
and,"  he  adds,  lightly,  yet  with  some  bitterness,  "  it  is  not 
necessary  for  me  to  live  /" 

Lying  against  his  heart  at  this  moment  is  a  sisterly  little 
letter  from  Viola,  in  whose  very  friendliness  he  has  read,  at 
last,  the  utter  hopelessness  of  ever  winning  other  than  this 
frank  and  affectionate  regard  from  her. 

Souci  dares  not  trust  her  voice  to  reply  to  his  last  words ; 
their  despairing  ring  fills  her  with  wild  hope.  Can  it  be  pos- 
sible that  he  has  not  yet  understood  her  ?  A  short,  forced 
laugh  jars  upon  this  blissful  perplexity. 

"  Is  life  so  sweet,  such  a  grand  and  perfect  thing,"  he  asks, 
mockingly,  "  that  one  should  sacrifice  to  it  honor,  duty,  pride, 
everything,  mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Would  you  call  it  duty  to  commit  suicide  ?"  she  returns, 
sadly ;  "  for  this  expedition  will  cost  your  life.  Your  life, 
which  might  be — and  shall  be — such  a  grand  and  perfect 
thing!"  she  concludes,  with  passionate  fervor. 

Tonio  bows  coldly :  "  Mademoiselle,  you  do  me  too  much 
honor ;  and  see,  we  are  approaching  your  hotel, — my  time  is 
up." 

A  pang  shoots  through  Souei's  heart ;  hot  tears  spring  to 
her  eyes ;  she  hastily  draws  down  her  veil,  saying,  in  stifled 
accents, — 


cy  PRESS.  311 

"  There  is,  then,  some  sorrow  in  your  life,  monsieur,  which 

robs  it  of  all  value  ?  If  so,  tell  it  me.  May  I  not — perhaps 

Ah,  your  face  changes !  I  am  right !  You,  too,  suffer ! 
TOHI'O  ! — Ah,  God!  have  pity  !''  Convulsive  sobs  shake  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

Tonio's  heart  beats  quick ;  a  swift  thought  flashes  through 
his  mind:  "  Why  could  not  that  other  woman  love  him  like 
this?  Might  it  not  be  that  she,  pure  as  ice,  is  as  cold?"  A 
sudden  anger  towards  her  possesses  him :  his  voice  softens 
into  involuntary  tenderness  as  he  passes  with  his  companion 
within  the  porte-cochere.  "  Calm  yourself,  I  entreat  you !"  he 
whispers,  as  the  outer  door  clangs  to,  and  they  stand  alone  to- 
gether in  the  soft  gloom.  "  Are  these  tears  for  me  ?  Then, 
indeed,  life  is  not  such  a  worthless  thing,  after  all !"  He  is 
smiling  a  little,  though  his  face  is  very  pale. 

With  a  quick  movement  Souci  raises  her  hands  to  throw 
back  the  veil  which  seems  to  suffocate  her :  the  wide,  open 
sleeves  of  her  black  drapery  fall  away  from  the  perfect  arms, 
which  gleam  out  from  the  dusk  like  sculptured  marble.  Her 
face — with  its  traces  of  tears,  its  tremulous  mouth,  and  pas- 
sionate eyes — is  lifted  to  his  as  she  murmurs,  shyly  yet  with 
inexpressible  tenderness,  "  I  have  waited  so  long,  so  patiently, 
— Tonio !  You  will  not — you  can  not  find  it  in  your  heart 
to  forsake  me — again  !" 

Touio's  head  whirls ;  a  violent  trembling  seizes  him ;  he 
covers  with  his  own  the  clasped,  entreating  hands,  and  looks 
down  into  the  white,  piteous  face.  She  is  very  near  him  ;  he 
can  perceive  a  subtle,  exquisite  perfume  stealing  forth  from  the 
lace  shrouding  the  coiled,  yellow  hair ;  he  can  hear  the  quick 
breath  coming  in  little  pants  through  the  parted  lips.  An 
intense  effort  at  self-repression  makes  his  voice  almost  inaudi 
ble  when  he  begins  : 

"  Soucietfe " 

But  not  another  word  follows  that  one,  for,  with  a  low, 
glad  cry,  the  slender  hands  are  wrenched  away  from  his, — 
Souci's  arms  are  flung  about  his  neck,  while  a  torrent  of 
words  breaks  forth,  mingled  with  joyful  tears  and  soft,  gurgling 
laughter: 

"  At  last !  at  last  you  have  said  it !  You  have  called  me 
'  Sonciette  !  Ah,  how  long  I  have  hungered  to  hear  that 
sound  from  your. lips!  How  many  dreary,  hateful,  endless 


312  SOUCI. 

years  have  I  waited  to  hear  you  call  me  once  more  by  the  old, 
old  name !  Oh,  mon  ami,  I  am  ready  to  die  now  !  I  want 
nothing  more  of  life — I  am  happy !  You  have  come  back  to 
me — I  am  Souciette  once  more  !  Say  it  again,  Tonio, — once 
again !" 

Then,  as  the  young  man's  arms  enfold  her  tightly,  he  looks 
full  into  the  magnetic  eyes  raised  to  his,  asking  gravely  yet 
with  tremulous  lips, — 

"  Hast  thou  been  always  loyal,  Souci  ?" 

"  In  heart  and  soul  and  deed!"  she  whispers.  "And  thou?" 

But  Tonio's  last  bulwark  of  strength  has  broken  down :  an 
ecstasy —  hitherto  unknown  to  him — intoxicates  him  ;  a  thou- 
sand little  pulses  of  joy  throb  throughout  his  entire  being;  he 
bends  his  head  to  the  pale,  upturned  face  on  his  breast,  and — 
answers  not  in  words. 

The  glow  has  faded  from  Souci's  face,  and  an  expression  of 
weary  sadness  rests  upon  it  when,  a  little  later,  she  enters  her 
salon  alone.  Throwing  herself  into  a  chair,  with  arms  up- 
stretched  above  her  head  and  fingers  tightly  interlaced, — an 
attitude  always  indicative  of  troubled  perplexity  with  her, — 
heavy,  impatient  sighs  escape  her  lips,  and  a  shadow  of  pain 
chases  the  love-light  from  her  eyes.  Tonio's  passionate  fare- 
well is  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  the  exultant  happiness  which 
she  had  so  lately  tasted  is  already  dashed  with  the  bitterness 
of  their  parting. 

There  is  something  ominous,  she  fancies,  in  the  shuddering 
chill  which  creeps  over  her  as  she  sits,  weak  and  nerveless,  a 
prey  to  the  vague  terror  which  gradually  assumes  form  and 
substance.  She  does  not  attempt  to  reason  with  herself;  she 
does  not  stop  to  consider  that  the  strain  of  the  past  few  weeks 
has  been  suddenly  relaxed ;  that  the  doubts  and  fears — the 
"constant  anguish  of  patience" — of  so  many  years  are  over, 
and  that  as  yet  she  can  but  dimly  realize  her  great  joy.  She 
does  not  reflect  that  she  has  fasted  since  yesterday,  and  that 
she  has  been  abroad  almost  since  day-dawn.  She  yields  her- 
self up  to  the  despondent  thoughts  crowding  upon  her,  and,  in 
the  natural  reaction  from  the  intense  excitement  which  had  so 
lately  culminated,  the  gloom  grows  deeper  about  her,  the  pre- 
sentiment of  evil  waxes  more  sombre. 

In  the  room  adjoining,  the  grand,  soaring  chords  of  Cle- 


CrPRESS.  313 

nienti's  "  Dido  Abbandonata."  flowing  from  the  master-hand 
of  Raoul  Delacroix,  seem  to  her  a  prophetic  wail  of  tribula- 
tion: she  can  scarcely  restrain  a  shriek  as  the  pathetic  strains 
swell  higher  and  higher.     Starting  to  her  feet,  she  paces  up" 
and  down  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  exclaiming, — 

"  That  music  will  drive  me  wild !  Why  does  he  always 
play  such  melancholy,  solemn  things  ?  Ah,  there  is  Beetho- 
ven now, — and  a  sacred  cantata  !  Now  he  is  perfectly  happy! 
He  should  live  in  a  cathedral, — poor  music-mad  recluse ! 
Alas,  may  he  not,  perhaps,  have  discovered  the  true  secret  of 
happiness  ?  A  life  set  apart  from  human  emotions — devoted  to 
art ; — a  world  of  his  own,  peopled  by  the  beautiful  creations 
of  his  fancy  ; — never  solitary — never  deceived — never  disap- 
pointed. Always  calm — self-sufficing — towering  above  his  fel- 
lows,— out  of  reach  of  human  weakness  and  human  pain ! 
He  is  great ! — greater  than  all, — than  I, — for  he  has  not  pros- 
tituted  his  glorious  art — his  high  career — by  the  slavery  of  an 
absorbing  passion.  A.\\,Dieu!  what  am  I  saying  ?  What  is 
fame — ambition — art  itself — to  a  woman?  Would  all  the  voices 
of  all  the  nations  fill  me  with  such  rapture  as  that  one  murmur 
— '  Souci'etle  f  I  can  hear  it  now  !  How  it  sped  like  fire  to 
my  brain !  how  my  heart  leaped  at  the  sound !  Ah,  Raoul 
Delacroix,  such  moments  are  not  for  such  as  you  !"  Her  lips 
are  curved  once  more  with  proud  delight ;  her  head  is  held  high 
in  the  old  stag-like  fashion ;  her  step  grows  more  elastic  as, 
with  a  mingling  of  haughty  defiance  and  half-tearful  tendes- 
ness,  she  cries,  "  Away  with  presentiments  !  I  have  won  him 
back  to  me!  he  loves  me!  I  am  happy!  Ah,  del!  lam 
so  happy !" 

Beethoven's  solemn  thunder  has  rolled  away  before  the  aerial 
melody  of  Mendelssohn,  which  ends  abruptly  in  a  crashing 
discord,  and. a  moment  later  the  door  is  flung  open  and  Raoul 
Delacroix  appears  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  speak  to  you,"  he  says,  coldly, 
as  she  advances  to  meet  him,  and  his  strong-featured  face 
grows  stern  as  he  notes  her  smiling  mouth  and  brilliant  eyes ; 
"  I  have  been  waiting  for  some  days  past  for  an  opportunity 
which — you  seemed  resolved  to  deny  me  !" 

"  Qu'nci •z-i-fiiis  (futic.  dicf  Mentor  f"  she  laughs  softly,  ele- 
vating IHT  brown  in  affected  Mirjirise.     "Are  you  vexed  with 
me?     Have    I  been   naughtier  than    usual,  that  you  frown 
o  '27 


314  SOUCI. 

upon  me  so  severely  ?  Come,  let  us  be  friends !  I  am  too 
happy  to  quarrel !"  Her  laugh  stings  him :  he  shakes  off, 
almost  rudely,  the  hand  she  lays  on  his  sleeve. 

"  It  is  time  this  comedy  should  end  !''  he  says  ;  "  it  is  making 
both  you  and  me  ridiculous  !  You  avoid  me  ;  you  evade  all 
explanation  of  your  very — singular — conduct,  and  I — I  have 
been  patient — forbearing — until  I  could  despise  myself  for  my 
pusillanimity " 

"  ' Forbearing !'  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  returns, 
gravely.  She  sinks  into  a  chair :  the  smile  has  died  on  her 
lips.  Raoul  stands  before  her,  leaning  lightly  with  one  hand 
on  the  back  of  a  chair.  As  Souci  raises  her  eyes  again  to  his 
face  she  cannot  help  observing  how  old  it  has  grown  of  late ; 
the  lines  about  the  eyes  and  across  the  wide  brow  are  deeply 
scored  ;  there  is  more  silver  in  the  dark  locks  on  the  temples, 
and  the  heavy  moustache  is  almost  entirely  gray.  "  He  looks 
tired  and  disappointed  and — human  to-day,"  she  says  to  her- 
self, wonderingly.  "  Perhaps  that  last  composition — his  master- 
piece, as  he  calls  it — has  not  been  well  received.  Ah,  well, 
even  in  his  life  there  are  thorns  !" 

"  '  Forbearing' — yes  !  Do  you  fancy  that  it  has  been  the 
custom  of  my  life  to  throw  every  other  consideration  to  the 
winds — to  sacrifice  my  dearest  pursuits, — what  are  to  «ie 
sacred  obligations — at  the  wanton  bidding  of  a  caprice,  an 
unreasonable  obstinacy, — a  coquetry  which  is  fast  developing 
into  a  mania  ?  You  see  I  do  not  spare  you  now  !"  his  voice 
softening  a  little. 

"Soit  /"  is  Souci's  sole  reply,  spoken  with  curling  lip. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  he  continues,  passing  over  her  exclama- 
tion, "  that  you  would  come  in  time  to  see  the  grave  injustice 
of  your  attitude  towards  me  and — others  ;  but  weeks  pass — 
engagements  are  broken  for  which  I  am  pledged — gossip  is 
permitted  to  meddle  with  your  fair  name — the  insane  folly 
which  appears  to  have  taken  possession  of  you ' 

"  Enough,  sir  !  I  will  hear  no  more  !"  A  cold  rigidity 
settles  down  on  Souci's  face ;  her  lips  close  tightly ;  her  eyes 
darken  with  anger. 

"  It  is  not  enough  !"  returns  Raoul,  firmly  ;  he  is  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  for  once  his  resolute  self-control  forsakes  him. 
"••  It  is  not  enough  !  At  least  you  shall  hear  and  answer  me  ! 
What  is  this  man  to  you,  that  for  him  you  should  cast  to  the 


CYPRESS.  315 

winds  every  obligation,  forfeit  your  word  and  mine,  ruin 
every  prospect  of  your  future  ?  What  is  he  to  you,  I  ask, 
this  acquaintance  of  a  month,  that  you  should  make  your 
name  a  by-word  for  him  ?" 

"By  what  right  do  you  dare  to  arraign  me  thus?"  cries 
Souci,  drawing  herself  up  with  .superb  scorn,  her  dilated  nos- 
trils and  quivering  lips  no  less  eloquent  than  the  flashing  eyes 
sweeping  him  with  passionate  disdain. 

Raoul's  face  grows  haggard  with  pain :  he  grasps  the  back 
of  the  chair  with  nervous  force ;  it  creaks  under  his  hand. 

"  What  are  you  to  me,  that  you  should  question  my  actions?" 
she  goes  on,  excitedly.  "  In  Heaven's  name,  does  not  my  orphan- 
age— my  desolate  position  in  the  world — at  least  grant  me  im- 
munity from  the  trammels  of  conventional  usages, — the  author- 
ized meddling  of  parents  and  guardians  ?  Am  I  not  entitled 
to  the  independence  of  action  and  thought  awarded  to  all  out- 
casts and  vagrants  so  long  as  they  keep  within  the  letter  of 
the  law  ?  What  right  has  any  one  on  earth  to  forbid  me  to 
bestow  my  friendship  where  it  so  pleases  me  ?  Ay !  even 
upon  '  this  acquaintance  of  a  montti  !  "  A  slight,  hysteric 
laugh  escapes  her. 

Raoul  has  grown  suddenly  calm :  a  feeling  almost  of  abhor- 
rence shoots  through  him,  as  these  bitter  words  cut  like  a 
knife  into  his  heart.  With  the  utmost  dignity  he  bends  his 
head,  as  he  says,  in  low,  perfectly  steady  tones, — 

"  You  are  right.  I  have  no  shadow  of  authority  to  control 
your  actions.  I  have  been  guilty  of  an  unwarrantable  pre- 
sumption. Pardon  me ;  I  shall  not  err  again." 

Turning  away,  he  has  almost  gained  the  door,  when,  with  a 
sudden  spring,  Souci  intercepts  him. 

"Ah,  forgive  me!"  she  cries,  in  thrilling  tones.  "I  have 
not  forgotten  that  I  owe  you — everything !  That,  but  for 
you,  I  should  still  be  a  miserable,  despised  pauper  1  That  you 
have  been  more  to  me  than  a  father, — 0  true  and  noble 
friend !  and  I  am  not  ungrateful, — oh,  believe  me !"  She 
covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  almost  cowering  before  his 
stern,  sad  eyes. 

Raoul's  face  grows  a  shade  paler,  but  his  voice  has  recov- 
ered its  ordinary  grave  gentleness,  as  he  says,  kindly,  "  I 
know  it ;  but  there  can  be  no  question  of  that  sort  between 
you  and  me ;  you  have  done  for  me  far  more  than  I  could 


316  SOUCL 

ever  repay ;  you  have  brought  into  my  life  the  only  sunshine 
niy  solitary  existence  has  ever  known.  Does  that  not  cancel 
all  obligation,  Souci?" 

She  tries  to  return  his  smile,  though  tears  are  hanging  on  the 
long  lashes ;  then  averting  her  head,  she  says,  falteringly,  while  a 
gleam  of  vivid  color  dyes  the  white  cheek,  "  You  asked  me  what 
this  man  was  to  me ;  you  had  every  right  to  do  so.  I  will  tell 
you  now,  and  you  will  understand — everything !"  She  pauses  an 
instant,  clasping  and  unclasping  nervously  her  hands.  "  Why 
should  I  be  ashamed  to  tell  you  all  that  is  in  my  heart ;  you — 
above  all  the  world  ?"  she  says,  suddenly,  taking  a  step  nearer 
to  him.  "  Can  you  not  guess,"  she  adds,  wistfully,  "  what 
alone  could  come  between  my  beloved  profession  and  myself? 
You  must  know — you,  who  have  known  me  all  these  years.'' 

"  1  cannot  guess."  The  strong  man  is  shaking  like  a 
frightened  child ;  his  heart  throbs  with  wild  hope ;  his  eyes 
rivet  themselves  on  her  changing  face  as  though  he  would 
wrest  the  confession  from  her  reluctant  lips.  With  an  infin- 
itely tender  gesture  Souci  stoops  and  lays  her  cheek  softly 
upon  the  strained  sinews  of  the  hand  grasping  the  chair. 
A  dimness  obscures  Raoul's  sight :  there  is  a  noise  of  rushing 
waters  in  his  ears.  "  Go  on  !"  he  says,  huskily.  "  Do  not 
torture  me  unnecessarily !" 

She  sends  a  swift  glance  upwards.  "It  is  nothing,"  she 
says,  quickly ;  "nothing  for  which  you  need  care  !  My  secret 
is  not  a  very  black  or  terrible  one !  It  is Oh,  my  mas- 
ter, my  friend  !  have  you  not  recognized  him  ?  Are  you  Mind, 
that  you  have  not  seen  Tonio  ?  That  you  have  not  felt  that 

I  was  wellnigh  mad  with  joy  all  these  weeks Ah.  do 

not  go  yet !  Tell  me  you  are  glad  for  me  !  speak  one  word  to 
me!"  she  cries,  in  alarm,  as  he  turns  abruptly  away,  with  diffi- 
culty repressing  a  groan. 

One  superhuman  effort,  and  he  has  recovered  his  ordinary 
calm  and  courteous  manner ;  his  voice,  however,  sounds  some- 
what changed,  as  he  says,  mechanically,  "  Glad  for  your  glad- 
ness always,  Souci :  I  need  not  assure  you  of  that.  But 
you  are  looking  weary,  and  I  must  riot  detain  you  longer ; 
pray  rest  a  while,  mon  enfant."  And  as  she  bends  her  head 
forward  he  touches  her  lightly  on  the  forehead  with  his  lips, — • 
the  rare  caress,  which  he  bestows  only  on  her  fete-day,  or  after 
some  unusual  success. 


CYPRESS.  317 

As  the  door  closes  upon  her,  he  throws  up  his  arms,  like 
one  who  has  received  a  cruel  hurt,  and  a  groan,  plucked  up 
hy  the  roots  from  his  heart,  breaks  from  him,  "  My  God !  my 
God !" 

Ay !  clench  your  impotent  hands,  Raoul  Delacroix,  and 
stride  in  restless  anguish  up  and  down  your  lonely  rooms, 
making  no  moan  after  that  one  irrepressible  cry,  but  wrestling 
with  all  your  manhood's  strength  to  conquer  the  giant — 
Despair ! 

The  tiger-cub,  warmed  in  your  bosom,  has  at  last  attained 
its  full  growth. 


CHAPTER  III. 
"  SHE'LL  BE  A  SOLDIER  TOO,  SHE'LL  TO  THE  WARS  !" 

.  .  .  .  "  Dark  lowers  our  fate, 

And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us; 

But  nothing  till  that  latest  agony 

Which  severs  thee  from  nature  shall  unloose 

This  fixed  and  sacred  hold  !".... 

FROM  Cantalupo  to  Pettorano  runs  a  steep  Alpine  gorge, 
some  thirteen  miles  in  length,  diverging  as  far  as  Castel-Pe- 
trosa  (a  village  on  a  height),  where  it  is  crossed  by  the  high- 
road. Along  the  latter,  a  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  tolerable 
horses  is  rolling  rapidly,  the  noise  made  by  its  wheels  entirely 
deadened  by  the  crash  of  musketry  from  the  slopes  of  Petto- 
rano. 

Dusk  is  falling,  and  the  sole  occupant  of  the  carriage — a 
woman — whose  haggard  face  and  anxious  eyes  appear  now  at 
one  window,  now  at  the  other,  striving  to  penetrate  the  fast- 
deepening  shadows — suddenly  commands  the  coachman  to  halt. 
A  miserable  figure  emerges  from 'the  shelter  of  a  tree  and, 
approaching  the  carriage,  whines  forth  a  petition  for  alms. 

••  You  are  a  cafone?  "  Souci's  voice  rings  out  like  steel. 

"Si,  signora!"  replies  the  trembling  wretch. 
27* 


318  SOUCI. 

"  Have  you  come  from  Pettorano  ?" 

"  Si,  signora." 

11  Are  the  Garibaldi  troops  in  the  village  ?  General  N , 

is  he  there  ? 

The  cafone  glances  warily  from  side  to  side,  gives  a  backward 
look  over  his  shoulder,  and  lowers  his  voice :  "  No,  signora ; 
the  village  is  full  of  soldiers,  but  they  are  the  King's!" 

Souci's  hand  clenches  itself  involuntarily  on  the  tiny  re- 
volver she  holds  ;  the  starlight  sends  a  gleam  upon  the  polished 
barrel  whose  muzzle  is  within  a  few  inches  of  his  heart ;  the 
cafone  starts  back  a  pace  or  two. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  ;  I  have  no  intention  of  murdering  you — 
-unless  you  lie  to  me!"  cries  Souci,  scornfully.  "  The  soldiers 
of  King  Francesco  are  in  the  village  yonder ;  where,  then,  are 
the  Garibaldians  ?  The  truth,  now  !" 

"  They  have  been  defeated, — some  of  them  were  forced  to 
retreat  towards  Bojano,  others  fled  to  the  mountains — 

"  You  lie  /"  she  exclaims,  starting  to  her  feet ;  then  sinking 
back  again  :  "  I  see  I  shall  have  to  kill  you  !"  As  she  cocks 
the  murderous  little  weapon  the  poor  fellow  darts  behind  the 
carriage,  whence  he  crawls  a  moment  later  almost  on  all  fours. 
"  Saiigne  di  Signore!"  he  whimpers;  "  I  have  told  the  signora 
naught  but  the  truth !  The  firing  the  signora  hears  now  is 
on  the  mountain,  between  the  red-shirts  and  the  cnfones 

"  Who  are  in  the  defile  ?   I  hear  the  gallop  of  horses ' 

Again  the  man  hesitates.  Souci  stretches  her  hand  through 
the  window,  its  palm  gold-laden.  "  See  !"  she  says,  in  a  stifled 
voice ;  "  here  is  gold  for  you  !  Tell  me  the  truth,  I  implore 
you !  Castel-Petrosa  is  held  by  the  enemy, — who  are  they 
who  gallop  to  certain  death  ?" 

The  traitor  eyes  greedily  the  glittering  coin  :  "  It  is  a  de- 
tachment of  General  N 's  forces  which  is  cutting  its  way 

to  Castel-Petrosa,  ignorant  of  the  position  of  the  royalist 
troops  !  Ah  ha !  -they  will  have  a  hot  reception  !" 

A  groan  bursts  from  Souci's  white  lips. 

'•'•Devil!"  She  flings  the  handful  of  gold  in  his  face  ;  with  a 
mocking  laugh,  he  stoops  and  gathers  up  the  pieces  gleaming 
amid  the  dust  of  the  roadway. 

"  The  signora  might  intercept  them  and  warn  them  of  their 
danger,"  he  ventures,  once  more  approaching  the  carriage- 
window,  in  the  hope  of  increased  reward. 


CYPRESS.  319 

"  How  ?  Where  ?"  Souci  raises  a  livid  face  from  her  hands 
and  her  eyes  flame  upon  his  cringing  form.  "  Tell  me  how  I 
can  save  that  band  from  destruction,  and  thou  shalt  be  rich, — 
hearest  thou  ?  rich  !" 

"  There  is  a  short  cut  through  the  wood,"  begins  the  peasant, 
peering  anxiously  about;  "  the  moon  is  rising  now, — we  cannot 
lose  the  way, — I  know  every  foot  about  here " 

"  Up  with  you  !  Up  beside  the  coachman  !  Direct  him  ! 
On,  Luigi !  do  not  spare  the  horses  !  Fly  !" 

"  But,  signora !  we  will  be  obliged  to  go  through  the  village 
yonder," — lie  points  towards  Castel-Petrosa  with  trembling 
finger  ;  "  that  may  mean  death  to  you '' 

"  Death !"  a  harsh  laugh  breaks  from  her ;  "  I  do  not  fear  it ! 
Up  with  you !"  In  an  instant  he  is  seated  beside  the  coachman 
and  they  are  dashing  along  the  high-road. 

Presently  a  voice  from  the  heights  above  them  calls  out, 
hoarsely,  "  Chi  va  ?d  ?" 

"  Viva  T Italia  /"  return  Souci's  ringing  tones. 

"  Halt. !  we  are  friends  !"  And  through  the  gloom  a  couple 
of  red-shirts  can  be  discerned  descending  the  mountain-side. 

To  Souci's  inexpressible  joy,  she  recognizes  in  one  of  them 
Pietro,  Tonio's  orderly,  a  man  faithfully  attached  to  him. 

"  II  capitano  ?"  she  murmurs,  grasping  his  sleeve  with 
trembling  fingers. 

"Ah,  signora,"  he  replies,  almost  with  a  sob,  "we  were 
separated  in  the  engagement  at  Pettorano " 

"  He  is  alive  ?"  she  gasps. 

"  Please  God,  yes." 

"  Oh,  why  did  he  not  surrender?"  she  cries,  her  voice  sharp 
with  pain.  "  What  hope  had  you,  surrounded  as  you  were  by 
an  enemy  who  outnumbered  you  a  hundred  times  ?" 

"  Signora,"  returns  the  other,  respectfully,  "  surrender  was 
useless.  The  cafones  give  no  quarter !  In  their  hands  it 
would  have  meant  torture  and  death  !  Moreover,  tJie  Garlbul- 
dians  never  surrender!  God  grant,"  he  adds,  with  sudden 
passion,  "  my  master  is  not  in  the  defile  !  Listen  !  I  can  hear 
the  groans  of  the  wounded  between  the  firing  !" 

"  We  are  making  a  short  cut  to  intercept  them  !"  Souci 
throws  wide  the  carriage-door.  "  Enter,  Pietro  !  we  may  save 
them  yet !  On,  Luigi  !" 

As  they  enter  the  village,  a  shower  of  stones  greets  them 


320  SOUCI'. 

and  a  few  shots  are  fired,  happily  without  effect,  save  that  of 
stimulating  the  terrified  horses  to  prodigious  speed.  On  they 
rush,  along  the  high-road  which  passes  directly  through  the 
straggling  town, — over  the  dead  bodies  of  men  and  horses — 
cafones,  red-shirts,  Bourbon  soldiers— in  one  ghastly  pell-mell. 
Souci  covers  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  she  leans  forward  from 
the  window  crying,  wildly,  "  Faster  !  Fly  !  Luigi,  you  must 
not  be  killed  !" 

Towards  the  end  of  the  village  the  road  opens  out  into  a 
semicircle,  then  winds  up  the  mountain  in  an  unbroken  ascent 
to  Castel-Petrosa.  Having  reached  this  point,  they  turn  sud- 
denly into  a  defile,  and,  lashing  his  horses,  the  intrepid  Luigi 
dashes  on. 

Presently  the  gallop  of  cavalry  can  be  heard  through  the 
din  of  musketry,  and  Pietro  darts  forward.  "  Listen !  here 
they  come  !  Under  that  deadly  fire  from  the  heights  !  Hark  ! 
that  is  his  voice  !  Per  Bacco  /' ' 

Clear  and  full  rings  out  Tonio's  well-known  voice,  sounding 
along  that  gulley  in  trumpet  tones. 

"  Shut  in  as  we  are,"  he  cries,  "  in  a  gorge  of  which  both 
outlets  are  blocked  by  the  enemy,  we  are  lost !  There  remains 
but  one  hope  !  I  propose  to  force  our  way  to  Castel-Petrosa  ! 
I  will  head  the  column  !  United  and  resolute,  some  of  us  may 
come  out  with  life!  Surrender  is  worse  than  death!  Let 
us  meet  our  fate  with  honor!  Avanti!  per  Galibardo  !  per 
T Italia!"  A  hoarse  cheer  from  the  men  drowns  the  groans 
of  the  dying. 

"Ctipitano  mio /"  shrieks  Pietro,  completely  frenzied;  and, 
tearing  open  the  carriage-door,  he  springs'  to  the  ground  as 
the  dauntless  band  gallops  up  to  where  the  carriage  stands  in 
the  shelter  of  the  trees  lining  the  road. 

Rushing  towards  a  prostrate  horse,  whose  rider  has  just 
dropped  dead,  he  jerks  him  to  his  feet,  arid  an  instant  later 
has  gained  Tonio's  side. 

The  cafones  are  concentrating  all  their  efforts  from  the 
heights  above,  and  as  Luigi's  horses,  now  mad  with  terror, 
wheel  round  and  plunge  through  the  brushwood,  bullets  rattle 
like  hail  upon  the  carriage.  Swaying  from  side  to  side,  the  doors 
torn  from  their  hinges  by  collision  with  the  trunks  of  trees, 
Souci  only  saves  herself  from  being  dashed  to  pieces  by  clutch- 
ing with  all  her  remaining  strength  the  frame-work  of  the 


CYPRESS.  321 

front  of  the  carriage.  The  cafone,  almost  dead  with  fright, 
clings  helplessly  to  the  coachman,  who,  in  his  turn,  has  aban- 
doned the  reins,  and  grasps  the  dashboard  in  the  agony  of 
despair. 

On  they  go,  tearing  along,  under  the  moonlight,  side  by  side 
with  the  cavalcade  of  snorting  horses  and  their  valiant  riders, 
cleaving  their  way  through  the  jaws  of  death.  Souci's  senses 
do  not  forsake  her :  never  has  she  been  more  alive  than  at  this 
moment!  She  can  hear  the  thud  of  the  horses'  hoofs;  the 
panting  breath  of  the  men  ;  the  whistling  of  the  bullets  whiz- 
zing down  from  the  mountain-side  ;  the  occasional  sharp  shriek 
of  a  wounded  horse  and  the  guttural  groan  of  a  shot  man  ; 
and  she  can  see,  with  the  moonlight  shining  full  upon  it,  the 
pale,  resolute  face  of  the  leader  of  that  band,  as,  sitting  firm 
in  the  saddle,  with  his  eyes  fixed  straight  before  him,  he  gallops 
on. 

Suddenly  she  feels  a  shock  ;  the  earth  seems  to  rise  up  about 
her ;  there  is  a  violent  wrench,  a  concussion  or  two,  and  all  is 
still. 

Making  a  supreme  effort,  she  lifts  her  head,  which  feels 
strangely  heavy  and  dull,  and  finds  that  the  carriage  has  been 
overturned,  while  the  horses,  pierced  by  bullets,  lie  quiet,  after 
a  ghaBtty  death-struggle,  in  one  huddled  heap. 

A  few  paces  off  are  stretched  the  motionless  forms  of  Luigi 
and  the  wretched  cafone. 

With  one  glance  Souci  takes  in  these  horrible  details ;  but, 
repressing  a  sickening  shudder,  she  extricates  herself  from 
the  debris  of  the  crushed  carriage,  and  with  sublime  courage 
forces  her  way  through  the  brushwood  and  gains  the  high- 
road. 

Then,  above  the  din  of  battle,  the  sounds  of  carnage,  the 
groans  of  the  dying,  there  rings  out  through  that  narrow 
defile  a  cry  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit  as  it  is  caught  away  by 
demoniac  hand: 

"Tonio!  Tonio!" 

Through  the  mad  excitement  of  that  race  for  life — through 
the  shadow  of  death  and  the  horror  of  dishonor — pierces  that 
cry,  sharper  than  bullet  or  sword-thrust,  to  the  heart  of  the 
foremost  rider  in  that  frantic-riding  group. 

But  waving  his  sword  over  hiw  head,  as  though  to  dispel 
the  superstitious  awe  with  which  that  weird  wail  inspires 


322  SOUd. 

him,  Tonio,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  cries,  with  renewed  energy, 
"Onward!  my  men!  Avanti  per  la  vita!  per  la  liberta! 
avanti  !" 

"Tonio!  Tonio!" 

Is  it  a  voice  from  the  spirit-world  calling  him  hence,  or  a 
human  cry  for  help  growing  fainter  as  they  speed  on  ?  "  God  ! 
who  calls?" 

Dashing  the  beads  of  sweat  from  his  brow,  Tonio  draws  rein, 
and,  turning  slightly  in  his  saddle,  strains  his  sense  of  hearing 
to  its  utmost  tension. 

An  instant  later  his  head  droops  suddenly  forward,  and  his 
horse  is  galloping  wildly  towards  Souci — riderless  ! 

Morning.  The  sun's  rays  tremble  and  grow  pale  with 
horror  as  they  flicker  down  between  the  hills  upon  that  blood- 
stained gorge,  which,  a  few  hours  ago,  thundered  with  the 
heat  of  conflict,  palpitated  with  throbbing  life,  and  now  lies  so 
strangely,  solemnly  still  under  the  gray,  sad-colored  sky. 

The  cafones  had  lost  no  time  whilst  they  were  able  to  deal 
out  death  wholesale  from  their  security  on  the  heights ;  their 
work  was  done  with  ease  and  dispatch,  and  its  record  is  writ 
in' blood  on  every  foot  of  the  road  below. 

The  silence  of  death  reigns.  The  birds  and  timid  beasts 
have  fled  affrighted  from  their  wonted  haunts ;  even  the 
cheery  insects  dare  not  venture  forth  from  their  hiding-places 
to  chirp  their  merry  greeting  to  the  day. 

The  cafones,  bent  upon  aiding  their  companions  at  Castel- 
Petrosa  in  their  work  of  annihilation,  have  not  yet  returned 
to  begin  their  pillage  of  the  dead.  Quietly  they  lie,  heaped 
together  in  places,  or  strewn  apart,  with  white,  still  faces  up- 
turned to  the  drear  sky.  Suddenly  upon  the  silence  rise  the 
flute-notes  of  a  human  voice, — if  a  human  voice  can  hold  such 
despairing  pathos — such  minor  tones  as  these : 

"JeU  sur  cette  boule, 

Laid,  chetif,  smiffrant, 
Etouffe  dans  la  fmile, 

Faute  d'etre  assez  grand, 
Une  plainte  touchante 

De  ma  Louche  sortit. 
Le  l>on  Dieu  me  dit,  '  Chante, 

Chante,  pauvre  petit  T  " 


Cl'PfiESS.  323 

Cleaving  the  stillness  and  the  solitude,  the  strain  reaches  the 
startled  ears  of  a  small  company  of  men  who,  with  rudely- 
constructed  ambulances  drawn  by  oxen,  have  been  picking  up 
the  wounded  along  the  route  from  Pettorano.  One  of  those 
unfortunates  is  having  the  bone  of  his  arm  somewhat  clumsily 
reset,  but  surely  even  the  agony  of  the  young  surgeon's  un- 
skilful manipulation  could  scarcely  draw  forth  the  cry  of 
horror  which  escapes  him  as  that  carolling  voice  strikes  upon 
his  hearing. 

"  There,  there !  that  will  do  !  thanks — I  mean  grazie,  si- 
gnore  /"  he  cries,  vehemently,  as  he  replaces  his  splintered  arm 
in  a  rapidly  improvised  sling.  "  Do  you  not  hear  that  voice? 
It  is  below  there — in  that  ghastly  ravine,  where  the  men-  were 
shot  down  like  dogs !  Listen !  she  begins  again !  Great 
Heaven  !  how  can  you  stand  gaping  like  that  when  a  woman 

is  down  there — in  danger "  He  is  out  of  sight,  followed  by 

one  or  two  of  these  who  had  understood  his  wild  mixture  of 
Italian,  French,  and  English.  The  others  turn  the  heads 
of  the  oxen  in  the  same  direction  and  descend  more  slowly. 
Guided  by  the  shrill,  far-reaching  voice,  Noyes  Jamieson 
and  his  companions  come  directly  upon  the  appalling  sight 
which  nevermore  shall  fade  from  their  memory  whilst  they 
live. 

The  woful  face,  the  vacant,  staring  eyes,  the  blood-stained 
hands  of  a  woman  who  sits  rocking  in  her  arms  the  inanimate 
form  of  the  man  she  had  risked  her  life  to  save ! 

Mercifully  unconscious  that  the  object  she  so  tenderly 
caresses  has  become  but  soulless  clay  ;  that  she  alone  in  that 
desolate  spot  lives,  while  all  about  her  are  strewn  the  dead,' 
and  the  very  atmosphere  reeks  with  carnage,  she  sings  her 
weird  dirge  over  her  dead  as  tranquilly  as  though  it  were  a 
lullaby. 

The  song  is  hushed  for  a  moment,  while  the  face  of  the 
singer  is  bowed  over  that  other  face,  not  whiter  nor  more 
awful  than  her  own,  lying  with  wide-open  eyes  upon  her  knees. 
Then  come  murmured  words  of  tenderness,  caressing  touches 
on  brow  and  hair  and  cold,  unresponsive  hands,  smiles  and 
kisses  intermingled,  all  unheeded  by  that  calm  and  rigid 
iac»'. 

Then  the  song  shrills  forth  again,  and  the  echo  carries  its 
sad  melody  far  and  wide. 


324  SOUCI. 

Jamie  had  held  his  own  right  valiantly  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fray,  twelve  hours  before  ;  but  I  doubt  even  when  the 
bullets  whistled  sharpest,  or  the  steel  flashed  keenest,  had  his 
pluck  stood  so  severe  a  test  as  now.  Never  had  his  valor 
proved  itself  so  nobly  as  at  this  terrible  crisis,  when  he  choked 
back  his  own  anguish  and  sought  with  gently-playful  words 
and  manner  to  induce  the  woman  he  loved  to  surrender  her 
awful  burden  and  allow  him  to  lead  her  away  from  the  fearful 
sights  that  surrounded  her. 

"  He  has  been  sleeping  a  long  time  !"  she  whispers,  smiling 
up  in  his  face  with  arch  glee,  as  she  points  at  the  stony  face 
on  her  lap  ;  "  and  I  dare  not  stir,  lest  he  should  awake,  you 
see !"  And  she  strokes  the  waving  dark  hair  back  from  the 
sunburned  brow,  crooning  softly,  while  she  rocks  herself  to 
and  fro. 

It  is  certain  that  these  first  words  cause  Jamieson  more 
heart-sickening  pain  than  did  the  bullet  which  shattered  his 
sword-arm  yesterday.  For  an  instant  he  recoils :  the  shock 
has  been  too  severe ;  but,  summoning  all  his  resolution,  he 
once  more  approaches  her.  Kneeling  down  beside  her,  he 
says,  lightly,  "The  ground  is  damp  here,  you  know;  these 
gorges  are  full  of  miasma.  Do  you  not  fear  that  he  will 
suffer  from  sleeping — so  long — on  the  cold  earth  ?*' 

The  wild  eyes  soften  a  little  and  grow  anxious,  then  brighten 
swiftly,  as  she  replies,  "  Do  you  not  know  that  he  is  a  soldier? 
He  is  accustomed  to  camping  out ;  there  is  no  danger  !" 

"  But— you  ?" 

"Ah,  bah  !  I  live  in  the  streets, — sleep  in  the  market- 
place,— under  the  doorways.  Hush  !  you  talk  too  much  !  you 
disturb  him ;  go  away !"  Her  voice  grows  querulous.  A 
look  that  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  hunted  deer  causes  Jamie 
to  spring  to  his  feet,  exclaiming, — 

"  By  heavens  !  this  is  too  much  !  I  cannot  bear  it !"  And 
covering  his  eyes  with  his  left  hand,  he  stands  silent  for  a 
minute,  breathing  hard. 

The  heavy  tread  of  the  oxen  announces  the  approach  of  the 
ambulance,  one  or  two  of  whose  occupants  join  in  the  little 
group  gathered  about  Souci.  They  discuss  in  whispers  the 
sad  spectacle,  and  consult  together  as  to  the  best  method  of 
separating  this  living  creature  from  the  dead.  The  object 
of  their  commiseration  appears  oblivious  of  their  proximity, 


Cl'PRESS.  325 

except  when  their  voices  rise  above  a  whisper,  when  she 
flashes  an  angry  glance  in  their  direction  and  redoubles  her 
soothing  caresses. 

"  What  can  be  done?"  Jamie  draws  the  young  surgeon 
aside.  "  There  is  no  time  to  lose  ;  the  cafones  will  swarm 
here  to  rob  the  dead,  vultures  that  they  are !  We  must  get 
her  away  somehow,  at  once!'1 

The  Italian  produces  a  small  wallet  containing  a  variety  of 
phials.  Selecting  one  containing  a  colorless  liquid,  he  con- 
trives to  make  Jamieson  understand  that  their  best  plan  is  to 
induce  the  lady,  whose  brain  is  evidently  distraught,  to  swal- 
low a  few  drops  :  they  would  produce  a  sleep  resembling  insen- 
sibility, during  which  they  should  be  able  to  convey  her  to  a 
place  of  safety. 

Jamie  heartily  approving  the  expedient,  the  other  goes  off 
in  search  of  water,  wherein  the  powerful  anodyne  is  to  be  dis- 
guised, while  arrangements  are  being  made  in  the  ambulance 
for  the  conveyance  of  the  body  of  Tonio,  which  they  deter- 
mine not  to  leave  to  the  desecrating  hands  of  the  cafones. 

After  an  interval  of  restless  suspense,  Jamie  ventures  once 
more  to  draw  near  to  Souci,  over  whom  he  at  once  perceives 
a  change  has  passed.  She  has  withdrawn  her  arms  from  about 
Tonio's  neck,  and  is  drawing  slowly  through  her  fingers  a  long 
tress  of  rich  golden-brown  hair,  darkened  here  and  there  with 
a  sombre  stain.  Her  own  hair  has  become  unwound,  and  a 
t liick  coil  of  it  lies  over  the  shoulder  of  her  black  dress  like 
a  pale,  wintry  sunbeam.  She  is  muttering  vehemently,  but 
incoherently,  to  herself,  and  across  each  cheek  has  come  a 
crimson  streak ;  her  eyes  glow  with  tne  lurid  fire  of  madness 
as  she  shakes  loose  the  yellow  coil  of  hair  and  spreads  it  side 
by  side  with  the  blood-stained  tress  through  which  that  fatal 
bullet  had  sped  to  the  heart  beneath. 

"  Pretty  hair — pretty  hair ;  it  shines  like  gold  in  the  sun. 
I  shall  tell  no  one  where  I  found  it;  I  shall  hide  it  where  she 
will  never  find  it,  ha  !  ha  !  She  will  be  looking  for  her  pretty 

gold -n  hair,  but Who  are  you?"     With  sudden,  fierce 

distrust  her  mutterings  are  checked  on  perceiving  Jamie's 
pitiful  face  regarding  her. 

"  I — I  have  come  for  you  !"  he  replies,  firmly,  guided, 
]>rrha]».  by  iii>tinct,  "  I  have  been  sent  for  you;  you  must 
come  with  me  immediately, — I  cannot  wait!" 

•28 


326  SOUCI. 

"  Who  sent  you  ?"•    She  eyes  him  still  suspiciously. 

"  Monsieur  Delacroix." 

A  light  flashes  over  her  face.  "Ah,  very  good!  I  am 
ready.  Ugh !"  with  a  strong  shudder,  as  her  eyes  fall  upon 
poor  Tonio.  "  What  is  the  matter  with  that  man  ?  Take 
him  away !"  she  whimpers,  piteously.  He  is  quickly  removed 
by  eager  hands,  and  Souci,  moving  stiffly  and  with  apparent 
suffering,  slowly  advances,  supported  by  Jauiieson's  uninjured 
arm,  and  is  placed  carefully  in  the  front  of  the  ambulance. 
The  others  follow,  the  young  surgeon  having  returned  with 
his  canteen  of  water,  of  which  they  all  avail  themselves,  Souci 
offering  no  resistance,  but  eagerly  quaffing,  with  parched,  fever- 
crimsoned  lips,  her  share. 

Thus  they  journey  on  for  weary  hours  until  Bojano  is 
reached.  Here  they  halt  at  an  inn,  from  whence  Jamieson 
dispatches  a  messenger  to  Naples,  summoning  Raoul  Delacroix 
to  the  death-bed  of  the  great  singer,  who  lies  in  dire  extremity 
stricken  with  brain  fever. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TWO    LETTERS. 

From  Noyes  Jamieson  to  Lyster  Rawdon. 

"  SORRENTO,  December  30,  1862. 

"YOUR  letter,  dear  old  boy,  has  followed  me  with  a  persist- 
ency and  accuracy  of  trail  worthy  of  a  dun's  final  appeal.  At 
length,  having  pitched  my  tent  here  for  longer  than  a  night's 
rest,  I  hav-e  been  lucky  enough  to  intercept  its  journeyings,  and 
glad  I  am  to  wade  through  its  many  and  almost  undecipher- 
able pages.  Why  can't  you  write  a  good  round  hand,  Lyster, 
— like  mine,  for  instance  ?  It  saves  so  much  trouble — to  your 
correspondent.  I  came  here  yesterday  from  Naples,  where  I 
tarried  but  a  few  hours,  so  profoundly  melancholy  did  I  wax 
over  the  memory  of  our  visit  there  two  years  ago.  Only  two 
years  ?  Can  it  be  possible  ?  There  are  lines  in  my  cherubic 


CYPRESS.  327 

countenance  and  silver  in  my  hair  to  bear  witness  to  the  fact 
that  these  years  have  left  me  a  sadder  if  not  a  wiser  man. 

"Jesting  aside,  Naples  seemed  haunted  to  me, — filled  with 
the  ghosts  of  those  dead  and  gone  days  when  the  'yellow- 
haired  sorceress' — as  you  called  her — held  her  court  there, 
and  permitted  us,  each  and  all,  the  sad  satisfaction  of  going 
mad  about  her.  I  was  very  far  gone,  you  remember,  and 
carry  about  with  me  to  this  day  an  ugly  reminder  of  my  in- 
fatuation in  the  awkward  stiffness  of  one  of  my  comely  limbs. 

"  But — what  a  glorious  woman  she  is,  Lyster  !  What  a  noble 
apology  for  any  degree  of  mental  aberration  !  And  what  an 
enormous  lunatic-asylum  she  creates  about  her  wherever  she 
goes  !  Even  you,  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  the  blissful  egotism 
of  connubial  content,  are  interested  in  her  welfare.  What 
man  who  had  ever  known  her  would  not  be  ?  I  have  seen 
beautiful  women  by  the  score  during  these  months  of  wander- 
ing, but  they  are  at  best  but  pale  and  spiritless  copies  of  that 
grand  creature. 

i%  Women  are  incomprehensible !  (Hasn't  somebody  said  that 
before  ?)  Who  could  have  imagined  that  this  type  of  her  sex 
— bowed,  crushed,  all  but  annihilated,  under  an  anguish  which 
robbed  her  of  reason  and  brought  her  to  the  borders  of  the 
grave — should  have  emerged  from  her  sackcloth  and  ashes 
— like  the  butterfly  from  its  chrysalis  (somebody  has  said  that, 
too ;  I  never  was  happy  at  metaphor) — brighter,  more  bewil- 
dering, more  powerful  than  ever !  There  must  be  stamina 
there  of  no  ordinary  kind.  I  saw  her  in  Paris  last  month. 
Alas,  when  she  leaves  the  stage,  we  shall  not  look  upon  her 
like  again  !  She  was  superb ;  her  acting  marvellous ;  her 
voice — but  you  know  what  that  was, — it  could  not  be  finer. 
I  felt  the  old  fever  coming  over  me,  and  left  in  time — to  save 
my  other  arm. 

"  Strange  to  say,  she  has  no  acknowledged  lover.  All  the 
world  is  in  love  with  her ;  she  is  feted  and  caressed  every- 
where,— from  the  court  to  the  canaille, — but  she  is  cold  as  a 
marble  statue.  Delacroix  received  me  almost  affectionately  ; 
she,  politely,  as  a  stranger  presented  yesterday. 

"  There  is  something  underneath  this  impassibility,  of 
course.  She  is  not  that  monster,  that  horror  without  a  name, 
— a  woman  without  a  heart.  No ;  unique  as  such  a  creature 
would  be,  Souci  is  not  that.  Is  she,  then,  that  other  rara 


328  SOUCI. 

avis, — a  woman  who  can  be  faithful  to  one  love?  Is  her  heart 
buried  Id  has,  under  the  limes  whose  blossom-covered  branches 
wave  before  my  window  ? 

"  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  have  my  own  theory  on  that 
subject. 

"  I  have  told  you  her  history,  as  recounted  to  me  by  Eaoul 
Delacroix,  on  a  certain  occasion  when  we  could  talk  or  think 
of  very  little  else.  I  had  not  seen  much  of  the  young  fellow 
who  had  been  her  companion  in  adversity,  but  I  had  seen 
enough  to  convince  me  that  she  had  outgrown  him  altogether ; 
that  noble,  gallant,  pure-toned  as  he  might  be,  and,  I  under- 
stand, was,  he  could  no  more  comprehend  that  brilliant  antith- 
esis, appreciate  her  genius,  satisfy  her  soul,  than  he  did  when 
he  allowed  her  to  stitch  waistcoats  for  a  livelihood.  They 
would  probably  not  have  discovered  this  fact  until  after  they 
had  mutually  sacrificed  each  other :  people  rarely  do.  But 
on  this  occasion  fate  stepped  in  opportunely,  and — one  is 
spared.  '  But  she  loved  him  !'  you  will  say.  No.  She  was 
a  woman  of  infinitely-grateful  and  passionately-absorbent 
nature,  of  intense  concentrative  power,  of  strong  idiosyncra- 
sies. Tonio  was  the  form  on  which  she  modelled  her  idol. 
Tonio  was  her  first  benefactor.  She  was  parted  forcibly  from, 
him  before  she  knew  herself, — the  idol  became  enshrined. 

"  Women  will  do  these  things :  half  of  them  worship  ideals 
created  by  their  own  poetic  imaginations ;  the  other  half  dese- 
crate the  shrines  out  of  which  the  adored  one  has  suddenly 
fallen.  If  I  were  an  Irishman  I  might  add — to  comfort  your 
wife — that  the  remainder  are  rational  beings  who  love  men, 
with  all  their  faults  and  failings.  But  my  letter  is  over- 
stretching the  bounds  of  your  most  elastic  patience. 

"  Say  all  sweet  things  for  me  to  that  peerless  dame,  at 
whose  nuptials  I  assisted  just  a  year  ago  in  that  gloomiest  of 
German  chateaux.  How  I  envied  you  that  exquisite  and 
pure -hearted  madchen !  How  grim  Baron  Karl  looked  as 
you  bore  her  away !  You  always  were  a  lucky  dog.  Lyster. 

"Nor  have  I  forgotten — the  baby  !  I  have  kept  him  until 
I  approached  the  end  of  my  paper,  that  I  might  not  be  ex- 
pected to  rhapsodize.  You  devoted  only  a  couple  of  sheets 
to  this  interesting  subject,  which,  considering  its  length  of 
days  (ten,  I  believe),  was  not  unreasonable.  In  your  next  I 
expect  a  detailed  account  of  the  length  of  its  nose,  first  tooth, 


CYPRESS.  329 

precocious  intellect,  etc.,  etc.     I  shall  be  patient  with  you, 
dear  boy,  patient  and — pitiful. 

"  Yours, 

"  NOTES  JAMIESON. 

"  Make  my  compliments  to  his  lordship.     Write  me  here." 

******** 

Lyster  Rawdon  to  Noyes  Jamieson. 

"  HARROWDALE  COURT,  January  3. 

"  Your  delightful  letter,  my  dear  Jamieson,  has  fired  the 
imagination  of  my  wife,  who  will  not  rest  until  she  has  taken 
a  trip  to  Paris  to  see  the  heroine  you  so  graphically  portray. 
Meet  us  there  on  the  16th,  my  dear  fellow,  and — you  shall 
be  introduced  to — the  baby  ! 

"  My  uncle  will  probably  accompany  us :  he  cannot  bear  to 
let  my  little  wife  go  out  of  his  sight.  Were  he  a  younger 
man  I  should  be  jealous  of  his  untiring  devotion.  He  twits 
me  occasionally,  when  we  are  alone,  with  that  '  romantic  little 
episode  in  the  Alpine  valley,  when  but  for  my  firmness,  my 
dear  boy,  you  would  have  thrown  yourself  away  absolutely 
on  some  apple-cheeked  peasant-lassie,  without  grandfather  or 
grammar, — a  thorn  in  your  flesh  forever.'  You  can  fancy  how 
fervently — and  how  silently — I  thank  God  in  my  heart  for — 
the  thorn. 

"  She  is  lovelier  than  ever,  and  as  pure  and  sweet  and  un- 
spoiled by  flattery  as  she  was  when  you  flirted  with  her  so 
outrageously  on  my  wedding-day,  under  my  very  eyes.  Don't 
do  it  again,  Jamie,  if  you  can  help  it. 

*'  Hoping  to  see  you  on  the  16th,  and  carry  you  home  with 

MS, 

"  I  am  yours  faithfully, 

"  LYSTER  RAWDON." 


28* 


330  SOUCL 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    SOLE   WORK   OP   A   LIFETIME. 

"  There  are  flushes  struck  from  midnights, 
There  are  fire-flames  noondays  kindle, 
Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish, 
Whereby  swoln  ambitions  dwindle, 
While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 
Which  for  once  had  play  unstifled, 
Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  lifetime 
That  away  the  rest  have  trifled." 

IT  is  the  first  night  of  the  new  opera,  written  expressly  for 
the  greatest  lyric  actress  of  the  day  by  the  greatest  living 
composer. 

"  Les  Italiens"  is  packed :  M.  Fauvet,  the  manager,  is  rub- 
bing his  hands  complacently  as  he  surveys  the  house  from  a 
crack  in  the  drop-curtain.  Lord  Harrowdale's  party,  including 
Jamie,  occupy  a  box  to  the  right  of  the  stage,  and  await 
•with  well-concealed  impatience  the  appearance  of  the  great 
singer. 

Before  the  second  act  they  have  forgotten  their  well-bred 
nonchalance  :  spell-bound,  breathless,  they  lean  forward,  dread- 
ing to  lose  a  note  of  that  exquisite  voice,  an  expression  of  that 
mobile  face. 

Her  reception  on  her  first  appearance  after  her  prolonged 
absence — concerning  which  many  rumors  were  rife,  serving  to 
whet  the  edge  of  curiosity — had  far  exceeded  her  expectations. 
But  to-night — standing  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  vast  chandelier 
and  the  glaring  foot-lights,  with  her  genius  glowing  from  every 
feature,  the  whole  figure  instinct  with  conscious  triumph,  while 
the  deafening  roar  subsides  and  swells  again,  bearing  upon  its 
waves  of  sound  the  name  she  has  made  world-famous — there 
is  almost  compensation,  she  thinks,  for  the  bitter  pangs  life 
has  dealt  her. 

As  the  thunder  of  applause  abates,  she  sings  again,  and 


Cl'PRESS.  331 

this  time  a  difficult  aria,  which  tries  the  full  compass  of  her 
voice. 

Never  had  she  sung  as  now ;  never  had  silence  more  pro- 
found paid  flattering  tribute  to  her  wonderful  power  as  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  last  roulade,  when  she  stands,  panting 
slightly,  but  calm,  in  that  electric  pause  before  the  myriad 
voices  break  into  wild  acclamation. 

She  has  retired  behind  the  scenes,  but  the  audience  is  clam- 
oring wildly.  Louder  and  more  vehement  grow  the  calls : 

'•  Souci !  Bis!  bis!  Jirava!  Brava!" 

The  manager  approaches:  "  Would  mademoiselle  conde- 
scend  " 

"  No!"  sharply  interposes  a  little  man,  with  a  yellow, 
wrinkled  face  and  keen  black  eyes.  "  No  !  no  encore  /"  Then 
stepping  quickly  to  Souci's  side,  he  whispers,  excitedly,  "  Be 
careful !  you  went  beyond  my  advice  in  that  last  trill.  I  be- 
seech you  to  repeat  nothing  to-night !  Remember  that  attack 
of  hoarseness  last  week  !  You  are  not  strong ;  you  must  not, 
you  shall  not  sing  that  aria  again  I1' 

She  rears  her  head  haughtily ;  the  diamonds  flash  out  from 
throat  and  hair  and  bosom;  her  eyes  glitter  with  feverish 
brilliancy. 

"  You  forget  yourself,  Valdini !"  Then  to  M.  Fauvet,  with 
a  smile,  "  Have  the  curtain  raised,  if  you  please ;  I  shall  re- 
peat the  last  aria." 

Her  old  master  groans  aloud.  But,  without  a  glance, 
Souci  sweeps  past  him  to  the  stage. 

Two  minutes  later  he  has  bounded  on  the  scene,  and  is 
grasping  firmly  by  the  hand  the  woman  who  stands  there,  with 
parted  lips  and  wild,  dilated  eyes,  a  frozen  effigy  of  the  glorious 
creature  who,  a  few  moments  ago,  held  that  madly-hooting 
multitude  in  the  bonds  of  an  awed  silence. 

"  You  must  come  away !"  he  whispers,  huskily,  while  his  black 
eyes  gleam  like  sparks  of  fire  out  of  the  sallow  pallor  of  his 
face.  "  Your  voice  has  failed, — do  you  understand?  Come !" 

Then,  still  with  that  fixed,  dilated  stare,  and  a  mocking  smile 
on  the  white  lips,  Souci  suffers  him  to  lead  her  away,  while 
the  galleries,  as  readily  moved  to  condemnation  as  to  praise, 
as  eager  with  their  hisses  as  with  their  bravas,  thunder  forth 
their  anger  and  disappointment  without  mercy  or  stint. 


332  SOUCL 

"Jeanne,  we  are -beggars,  thou  and  I!  Dost  thou  hear? 
We  are  beggars  !  Without  my  voice,  what  am  I  ?" 

"  A  better  woman  than  with  it !"  answers  Jeanne,  bluntly, 
as  she  tenderly  strokes  the  bowed  head  upon  her  breast. 

All  the  night  through,  the  rough  peasant-woman  has  tire- 
lessly applied  the  balm  of  a  divine  tenderness  to  the  quivering 
wounds  laid  bare  before  her,  and  now,  at  last,  Souci  has  been 
soothed  into  comparative  calmness. 

"And  we  are  not  beggars,  mam'selle,"  she  goes  on  in  her 
practical  way ;  "  I  can  work  for  you ;  my  hands  are  not  use 
less  yet !" 

"  Poor  Jeanne !''  The  brilliant,  tearless  eyes,  looking 
strangely  large  in  the  haggard  face,  are  raised  with  wistful 
affection. 

"  Besides,"  ventures  her  comforter,  "  there  is  M.  Raoul " 

"  Ah  !  do  not  speak  of  him  !"  cries  Souci,  starting  up,  her 
features  convulsed  with  pain.  "  Thank  God,  he  is  far  away — 
he  has  not  witnessed  my  bitter  humiliation  !  Oh  !  thank  God 
for  that !" 

"  My  dear,"  says  Jeanne,  solemnly,  drawing  her  down  be- 
side her  again,  "  you  are  too  proud  ;  there  is  nothing  the  good 
God  hates  like  pride  !  We  are  all  poor  creatures ;  we  must  all 
work  in  our  different  ways;  all  suffer,  all  die.  Each  one's  bur- 
den is  made  sufficiently  heavy  to  him ;  then  why  add  an  extra 
load  by  foolishness  ?  M.  Raoul  did  not  despise  you  when  you 
sung  in  the  streets  for  your  bread ;  why,  then,  should  he  do  so 
now  ?  Ah !  mon  enfant,  do  not  sob  so  bitterly ;  tu  me  fais 
mal,  vois-tu  ?" 

"  Let  me  cry,  Jeanne  !  let  me  cry !" 

Patiently  Jeanne  waits  until  the  passion  of  tears  has  spent 
its  force ;  until  the  sobs  grow  fainter  and  die  away  into  long- 
drawn  sighs  of  exhaustion.  Patiently  she  listens  then  to 
Souci's  remorseful  confessions  and  keen  self-reproach,  her 
rugged  features  twitching  comically,  from  time  to  time,  and 
an  occasional  tear  rolling  slowly  down  the  weather-stained 
che»k. 

There  is  a  softened  sadness  in  the  face  looking  out  with 
mystic,  far-reaching  eyes  from  the  loosened  yellow  hair,  as 
Souci  concludes,  drearily, — 

"  I  have  been  a  wicked  woman,  Jeanne !  I  have  lived  only 
for  myself !  I  have  tried  to  make  others  suffer,  and  now  I — 


CYPRESS.  333 

am  desolate  !  All  gone — all  gone — Fame  !  Ambition  !  Love ! 
— I  am  left  alone  !" 

"  No  ;  not  alone,  mon  enfant !     M.  Raoul " 

Jeanne  checks  herself  suddenly,  fearing  another  outburst ; 
but  Souci  only  buries  her  face  deeper  on  the  broad  bosom,  and 
whispers,  "Well?" 

"  M.  Raoul  just  worships  you !"  returns  Jeanne,  taking  cour- 
age. "  Have  you  not  seen  it  ?  how  he  went  almost  mad  during 
your  illness  ;  passing  whole  nights  outside  your  chamber-door, 
and,  I  am  sure,  grew  as  pale  and  thin  as  yourself  before  you 
were  able  to  leave  your  room.  Ah,  Seigneur  !  what  devotion !" 

"  Go  on,  Jeanne  !" 

"  And  then  when  your  coldness  drove  him  to  say  that  he 
would  go  off  somewhere,  to  foreign  lands, — perhaps  where  the 
people  are  cannibals  and  his  life  would  be  in  danger, — you  let 
him  go  without  even  bidding  him  adieu " 

"  He  did  not  give  me  a  chance ;  he  started  before  I  was 
awake,  you  remember  !"  Souci's  smile  is  sadder  than  tears. 

"  Yes,  he  started ;  but  I  do  not  think  he  got  very  far  on 

his  journey  to  those  Eastern  lands "  Jeanne's  lips  are 

suddenly  pursed  up  very  tight,  but  Souci,  darting  up,  fixes  her 
great  eyes  upon  her  with  penetrative  inquiry. 

"  You  are  keeping  something  from  me,  Jeanne  !  Ah,  that 
is  cmel !  have  I  not  suffered  enough  ? 

"  I  do  not  know — I  have  been  forbidden  to  tell  you " 

stammers  the  poor  woman,  fairly  compelled  to  betray  Raoul 
under  the  force  of  Souci's  insistent  gaze.  Her  last  remaining 
scruple  vanishes  as  she  feels  a  pair  of  soft  arms  flung  about 
her  neck  and  hears  the  quick,  gasping  cries,  born  both  of 
tears  and  laughter, — 

"  Oh,  dear  Jeanne !  good  Jeanne  !  tell  me — tell  me  every- 
thing !  He  did  not  go  far — he  did  not  go  at  all  ?  Oh,  Raoul ! 
Raoul !" 

And  then  Jeanne,  also  crying  and  laughing :  "  He  is  here 
— in  Paris !  He  was  at  the  Opera-House  last  night !  Ah, 
how  furious  he  was  at  that  noisy  canaille!  His  poor  heart  is 
just  breaking  with  love  and  pity  ! "  She  stops,  quite  over- 
come, and  for  a  while,  after  the  manner  of  women,  they  weep 
convulsively  in  their  great  joy. 

At  length  Souci,  quite  calm  and  stilled,  lifts  her  head,  put- 
ting back  the  drooping  hair  from  her  temples  with  both 


334  soucr. 

hands,  and  raising  her  eyes, — shining,  like  two  stars,  with  a 
mysterious  radiance  not  of  earth, — says,  softly,  "  Do  you  think 
he  will  forgive  me,  Jeanne  ? — he  is  so  good,  so  merciful, — oh, 
Jeanne,  do  you  think  he  loves  me  enough  for  that?" 

Another  voice  than  Jeanne's  breaks  on  her  ear, — stronger 
arms  than  hers  enfold  her  in  their  tender  clasp,  while, 
almost  with  a  sob,  Raoul  whispors, — 

"  My  own !  my  glorious  one !  my  wife !  at  last,  thank 
God !" 

Souci's  story  has  been  a  sad  one.  dear  reader.  Could  it  be 
otherwise?  Can  one  gather  grapes  from  the  thorn-bush,  or 
from  the  thistle  wholesome  figs  ? 

That  "  medicine,-to  produce  health,  has  to  examine  disease," 
and  that  "  music,  to  produce  harmony,  must  investigate  dis- 
cord," are  truisms  older  than  Plato.  Through  the  dense 
shadows  of  a  moral  pathology  poor  Souci  has  groped  her  way 
to  the  light, — ay,  even  to  a  glimpse  of  the  eternal  stars ;  and 
the  jarring  chords  of  finite  blundering  have  at  last  been  reset 
to  melody  as  divine  as  angels'  singing. 

Heinrich  sleeps  beside  his  Berthe,  and  within  sight — 
should  his  spirit,  hovering  near,  turn  incorporeal  eyes  away 
from  her  last  resting-place — of  his  beloved  Rhine.  German 
violets  and  the  tender-eyed  Vergissmeinnicht  bloom  brightly 
over  the  quiet  hearts  which  "  in  death  were  not  divided." 

By  that  other  grave — within  hearing  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean's murmurings — a  solitary  man  sits  sometimes,  asking 
despairingly  of  Heaven  why  the  lost  was  found  but  to  be 
given  up  again. 

Across  those  same  blue  waves  comes  the  answer  from  the 
lion-heart,  content  to  bide  God's  time — quietly  awaiting  His 
beckoning  finger  in  his  island-home — assured  that  He  directs 
all  things  well. 

From  the  shore  of  Caprera,- Garibaldi's  eyes  turn,  not  seldom, 
towards  the  spot  where  a  white  headstone  gleams  out  from  the 
emerald  turf,  on  which  is  inscribed  simply  the  tender  name  he 
had  been  wont  to  use  to  his  favorite, — 

"  Figlio  WM'O." 

THE    END. 


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court,  burgher,  and  rural  life  in  Ger- 
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TRANSLATED  BY   MRS.  ELGARD. 

OVER  YONDER. 

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